LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

GIFT  OF 

MRS.  MARY  WOLFSOHN 

IN    MEMORY  OF 

HENRY  WOLFSOHN 


THE 


A 


CHRISTMAS  AND  NEW-YEAR'S 


NEW    YOKE: 

PUBLISHED  BY  LEAVITT  &  ALLEN. 

NO.  879  BBOADWAY. 


PRESENTATION  PLATE 
ROSE  OF  BEAUTY 
THE  INFANT  - 
LOVE'S  PERFIDY 
THE  ONLY  SON 
ELLEN  FILMORE 


-  Parvis  - 

Sir  Thos.  Lawrence 

-  Chapman 
J.  Horsley 

-  W.  Maddox  - 


PAGl 

BEFORE  TITLE 

-     FRONTISPIECE 

27 

CO 

116 

205 


1470 


PEEFACE. 


IN  presenting  to  the  public  a  new  volume  of  Friend- 
ship's Offering,  there  is  no  occasion  for  a  lengthened 
and  elaborate  preface.  Amidst  the  numerous  band 
of  eager  and  active  competitors  now  starting  forth 
on  the  same  ground,  Friendship's  Offering  prefers 
its  claim  to  a  liberal  share  of  the  public  patronage, 
with  a  confidence  equally  remote,  it  is  hoped,  from 
overweening  presumption  or  affected  humility,  and 
without  any  wish  either  to  disparage  the  pretensions 
of  its  rivals  or  to  overrate  its  own. 

The  editor  considers  it  sufficient  to  state  in 
brief  and  simple  terms,  that  every  exertion  has  been 
made,  not  merely  to  maintain  the  advantageous 
ground  in  public  estimation  acquired  by  former 
volumes  of  this  work,  but  to  keep  pace  with,  and  as 
far  as  possible  to  promote,  the  more  perfect  develop- 
ment of  a  sound  and  liberal  taste,  in  all  that  relates 


0  PREFACE. 

to  excellence  in  literary  composition  or  pictorial  em- 
bellishments. A  reference  to  the  table  of  contents 
will  exhibit  at  one  glance  th£*  array  of  talent  he  now 
offers.  How  far  he  has  succeeded  in  producing  a 
harmonious  whole,  by  the  combination  and  grouping 
of  so  great  a  variety  of  "  lights  and  shades  "  he  can- 
not presume  to  determine  ;  but  as  respects  one  fea- 
ture, he  is  willing  to  hope,  that  little  room  has  been 
left  for  any  wide  diversity  of  opinion — namely,  in 
regard  to  the  uniform  tone  of  pure  morality,  by 
which  he  lias  endeavored  to  characterize  this  volume 


0  ©  KT  1  13  Sf  I1 


CECELIA,  .        .        ,.•-.»• 

FAREWELL.        .  . 

CONFESSIONS  OF  .\  GAMBLER. 

THE  INFANT ' 

HELEN.       .  .         .         .         , 

GENTLE  WORDS — LOVING  SMILES.    , 

THE  IMPORTANCE  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

SONG.          .  ... 

TEMPTATION. 

A  REFLECTION  AT  SEA.   . 

DOMESTIC  SLAVERY  IN  THE  EAST. 

LOVE'S  PERFIDY. 

SONG  OF  THE  WAYFARING. 

MARRIED  PARTNERS. 

THE  WEALTHY  MARRIAGE.     . 

THE  ONLY   SISTER  TO  HER  ONLY  > 
BROTHER.  S 

How  TO  RUIN  A  YOUNG  MAN. 

HAVE  PATIENCE. 

THE  DYING  WIFE 

THE  GREAT  HEREAFTER. 

WINTER.     . 

THE  CAMPO  SANTO. 

THE  IMITATOR. 

OUR  LITTLE  SON. 

NIGHTS  IN  THE  OLD  ALMSHOUSE.    , 

To   *  *  *  *. 

SILENT  LOVE 


Jlgnes  Strickland. 


Miss  S.  A.  Hunt. 
Mrs.  Mary  JLrthur. 
T.   8.  JLrthur.       . 

Miss  Pardoe. 

Mrs.  M.  E.  Hewitt. 

C.    W.  Everest.    . 

Dr.  Donne.    . 

Mrs.  S.  Jl.   Wentz.      . 

Mrs.   Sarah  Josepha  Hale. 

The  Editor. 
William  C.  Richards. 


C.  L.   Wheeler.    . 
Charles  G.  Leland. 
From  the  German. 
T.   S.  Jl.       .         . 

John  H.  Hewitt.  . 
Harriet  Mansfield 


Page 
9 

10 
11 

-27 
28 
29 
80 
46 
47 
61 
62 
66 
67 
68 
69 

89 

91 
108 
109 
111 
112 
113 
115 
116 
118 
127 


V1U 


CONTENTS. 


Pa-e 

EVENING.            .         .         .         .         . 

. 

163 

THE  HAPPY  HOME. 

Mrs.  Emetine  S.   Smith. 

164 

TRUE  AND  BEAUTIFUL  THOUGHTS. 

...... 

166. 

BREAD  IN  THE  WINTER  NIGHT. 

Kate  Sutherland. 

170 

A  BEAUTIFUL  THOUGHT. 

...... 

179 

I    AM    NOT   ALL,   ALONE.       .            .  « 

Mrs.  Mary  Jlrthur. 

180 

ROCK  ISLAND.             ^ 

A.  H.  Maxfield.   . 

181 

SALLY   LYONS'   FIRST  AND   LAST  ) 
VISIT  TO  THE  ALE-HOUSE.      ) 

T.   S.  Arthur. 

184 

HERODIAS.           ..... 

196 

THE  WATCHER. 

Mrs.  Emetine  S.  Smith 

202 

A  REMINISCENCE.     . 

Henry  G.  Lee. 

205 

THE  WTATER  SPIRIT. 

Miss  Elizabeth  G    Barber. 

217 

MONODY  —  GEN'L.  S.  W.  KEARNEY 

Mrs.  R.   S.  JVichols. 

219 

LOUISE  OF  LORRAINE. 

Jlgnes  Strickland. 

220 

To  THE  SONS  OF  TEMPERANCE. 

fanny  Forrester. 

240 

THE  PRIMROSE. 

Thomas  Carew.    . 

241 

FIRST  EARNINGS. 

Harry  Sunder  land 

242 

THE  DESERTED  HOUSE.     . 

R.  H.   Stoddard. 

256 

THE  BODY  AGAINST  THE  SOUL. 

J  Ji.   Stone. 

269 

. 

Of  TKt 

UNIVERSITY 


®  1  ®  1 1 1 A . 

BY    *   R  S .    EMELINE    S.    SMITH. 

1  SAW  her  deck'd  to  join  the  festal  throng — 

A  wreathe  of  snow-white  flowers  was  on  her  brow, 

And  her  dark,  waving  locks  fell  round  a  form, 

Whose  delicate  and  graceful  outlines  seemed 

Moulded  by  Nature  in  her  happiest  mood. 

Her  face  was  beautiful — it  wore  the  calm, 

Thoughtful,  and  spiritual  loveliness 

Caught  from  the  mind  within.     No  need  of  words 

To  tell  her  passing  thoughts — the  delicate  hues 

Upon  her  varying  cheek — the  radiant  eye, 

Now  soft  and  tearful,  now  all  light  and  joy, 

And  the  sweet,  flexible,  love-inspiring  mouth, 

Were  each  most  truly  eloquent  to  speak 

The  spirit's  pure  emotions. 

Now  she  stood 

Holding  the  bridal  wreath,  that  soon  would  rest 
Upon  her  brow.     A  tide  of  solemn  thought 
Swept  o'er  her  face.     Her  dark  and  dream-like  eye 
Look'd  like  a  Sybil's,  when  she  seeks  to  read 
The  secrets  of  futurity.     She  mused 
Upon  that  coming  hour,  when  she  should  stand 
Beside  the  sacred  shrine,  and  speak  the  vows 
So  fraught  with  good  or  ill.     She  was  not  one 
To  pass  with  thoughtless  step  into  a  new 
And  solemn  path  of  life.— And  now  she  paused, 
To  ask  her  heart  once  more,  if  it  could  well 


10  CECELIA. 


And  worthily  discharge  the  sacred  dues 
Of  wedded  life.     By  the  soft,  tender  light 
That  stole  into  her  face,  the  while  she  mused, 
I  knew  that  Love  and  Hope  had  made  reply, 
Such  as  her  soul  approved. 

Thou  art  no  cold 

And  wild  Ideal,  beautiful  Cecelia  ! — 
I've  seen  the  home  where  thou  dost  live  and  love  • 
T  know  the  hearts  made  happy  by  thy  smile  : 
And  if  the  prayers  of  one  who  knows  thy  worth 
Could  shape  thy  future  lot,  that  lot  would  be 
Cloudless  and  lovely  as  a  summer  day 
That  dawns  and  dies  in  beauty  !     But  in  vain 
My  loving  heart  would  seek  to  shield,  by  prayer, 
Thy  future  from  the  inevitable  ills  of  life  ; 
And  this,  to  me,  were  a  most  bitter  thought, 
Did  I  not  also  know,  that  souls  like  thine 
Find,  in  their  sinless  depths  a  holy  strength, 
Which  bears  them  safely  o'er  the  waves  of  care. 
Like  all  the  good  and  pure,  thy  spirit  shines 
An  Eden  world,  whose  beauty  and  whose  bloom 
No  time  or  change  can  mar. 

And  so,  dear  girl, 

Let  not  a  doubt  disturb  the  blissful  dream 
That  Love  hath  wakened  in  thy  gentle  heart. 
Thou  mayest  in  holy  faith  and  trust  go  forth 
To  thy  new  sphere — for  thou  hast  in  thyself 
The  power  to  make  that  sphere  as  fair  and  bright 
As  earthly  lot  can  be. 


CONFESSIONS    OF    A    GAMBLER. 


OF  all  the  passions  which  take  possession  of  the  human 
heart,  and  lead  away  the  understanding,  perhaps  there  is 
none  so  powerful  and  all  absorbing  as  that  of  gambling. 
There  is  none  which  brings  in  its  train  such  hopeless  ruin  of 
both  soul  and  body  ;  and  yet  it  has  a  strange  and  wonderful 
fascination ;  and  the  man  who  once  yields  himself  to  its  in- 
fluence, is  as  one  under  the  charm  of  a  serpent's  eye.  He  is 
entranced  in  a  vision,  and  dreams  of  boundless  hoards  of 
wealth, — gold  and  silver,  and  everything  which  riches  can 
procure,  gleam  upon  his  diseased  imagination, — until,  step 
by  step,  he  goes  on  in  his  infatuation,  and  sinks,  lost  and 
destroyed,  into  the  jaws  of  irremediable  ruin.  Would  that 
the  greatness  of  the  evil  could  be  felt  and  understood  with- 
out any  actual  experience  of  the  misery  which,  in  almost 
every  instance,  results  from  indulging  in  this  horrible  sin  ! 

Although  we  have  a  natural  aversion  to  confess  our  own 
crimes,  or  even  follies,  I  have  become  so  thoroughly  impressed 
with  the  sense  of  the  inability  of  a  second  person  to  convey 
impressively  the  various  scenes  in  which  a  gambler  partici- 
pates, and  the  slow  and  almost  imperceptible  degrees  by 
which  he  is  lead  on  in  his  course,  that,  however  repugnant  it 
may  be  to  my  feelings  of  pride,  I  have  determined  to  make 
these  confessions.  And  why  not  ?  Who  can  understand  it 
better,  and  who  can  trace  out  its  sinuous  windings ;  its 


12  CONFESSIONS    OF    A    GAMBLER. 

incalculable  train  of  consequences,  so  vividly,  as  one  who  is  at 
last  brought  to  a  sense  of  his  true  situation, — whose  very  soul 
is  gnawed  at  the  view  of  his  ruined  fortunes,  his  lost  repu- 
tation and  health, — the  memory  of  a  dear  domestic  circle, 
lost  and  destroyed  by  his  own  folly, — an  aged  father  stript 
of  the  honest  gains  of  a  well  spent  and  industrious  life,  and 
thrown  with  weak  and  trembling  frame,  his  gray  hairs  and 
tottering  steps,  upon  the  tender  mercies  of  a  pitiless  world. 
My  soul  burns  and  maddens  at  the  thought,  and  memory 
starts  back  aghast  at  its  own  involuntary  images.  I  will 
begin  with  this  single  observation, — that  a  man  cannot 
gamble  and  be  honest.  He  must  be  a  villain.  And  to 
impress  this  truth  upon  the  minds  of  the  young,  I  will  now 
enter  into  a  detail  of  my  own  experience,  and  show  them 
what  an  awful  vortex  they  are  rushing  unguardedly  into, 
when  they  make  the  first  step.  "  C'est  le  premier  pas  qui 
conte."  The  danger  lies  in  the  first  step.  "  Touch  not, 
handle  not;"  for  it  winds  itself  about  you  like  the  coils  of  a 
snake,  limb  by  limb,  till  at  last  you  are  unable  to  throw  it 
off,  and  soon  or  late  will  be  crushed  and  powerless.  Were 
gambling  but  a  solitary  crime,  there  would  be  enough  to  con- 
demn it ;  but  it  is  the  father  of  many  crimes.  But  to  my 
story. 

The  first  years  of  my  life  I  shall  touch  upon  but  slightly. 
Suffice  it  to  say,  that  my  parents  were  wealthy  and  moved  in 
the  highest  circle  of  society.  They  were  kind  and  indulgent, 
and  being  an  only  child  every  care  and  attention  was  paid  to 
my  education.  I  was  the  pet  of  the  family,  and  from  my 
earliest  days  was  taught  to  look  upon  myself  as  the  hope  of 
th/*  house.  The  only  thing  neglected  was  my  moral  culture. 


CONFESSIONS    OF    A    GAMBLER.  13 

and  I  am  lead  by  observation  to  fear  that  this  is  almost  a 
universal  fault  among  the  wealthy.  I  was  taught  every 
accomplishment  that  goes  to  make  up  the  fine  gentleman,  and 
my  deluded  parents  were  nervously  anxious  lest  I  should 
degrade  myself  by  associating  below  my  rank. 

I  was  therefore,  after  passing  through  my  collegiate  days, 
thrown  into  the  society  of  young  men,  who  had  been  taught 
these  aristocratic  views.  There  was  a  degree  of  elegance 
about  them  which,  to  the  superficial  observer,  was  fascinating 
in  the  extreme.  Nothing  could  be  more  faultless  than  their 
manners  in  society, — their  conversation  while  in  the  social 
circle  was  of  a  delightful  and  pleasing  cast, — in  a  word,  there 
was  such  an  air  about  everything  they  did  and  said,  that  one 
was  almost  compelled  to  be  pleased.  All  the  laws  of 
etiquette  were  rigidly  observed  while  in  the  society  of 
females  ;  and  their  general  intercourse  with  the  world  was  so 
polite  and  pleasing,  there  was  such  an  air  of  kindness  and 
good  will,  that  the  very  perfection  of  virtue  and  innocence 
seemed  embodied  and  personified.  I  was  delighted  at  the 
idea  of  forming  such  acquaintances  and  every-day  associates, 
and  thus,  like  a  victim  with  a  garland  of  roses  upon  my  head, 
was  led  behind  the  scenes,  and  gradually  became  initiated 
into  what  were  until  this  time  hidden  and  unknown.  As  I 
was  just  making  my  debut,  and  having  great  expectations, 
nothing  could  exceed  the  apparent  respect  and  attention  with 

which  1  was  received  in  the  city  of  B ,  where  I  was  sent 

by  my  father  to  enter  upon  the  study  of  medicine,  under  the 
care  of  the  celebrated  Dr.  R .  Since  there  was  no  abso- 
lute necessity  of  following  any  profession  for  a  livelihood,  this 
step  was  taken  more  for  the  purpose  of  keeping  up  appear- 


14  CONFESSIONS    OF    A    GAMBLER. 

ances  than  any  other,  since  even  bj  the  most  wealthy  in  this 
country,  one  must  make  a  show  of  having  some  business. 

And  Dr.  R being  a  man  who  was  much  esteemed,  and 

whose  society  was  sought  by  the  most  fashionable  and  the 

elite  of  B ,  I  was  placed  in  his  family  and  under  his 

immediate  auspices. 

To  be  brief,  I  was  soon  introduced  into  the  best  society, 
and  found  myself  in  what  was,  to  one  so  fresh  and  inex- 
perienced as  I,  a  paradise  of  delights.  Having  a  natural 
inclination  to  the  elegant,  I  was  an  apt  pupil,  and  soon 
acquired  confidence  and  the  air  distingue  so  necessary  to 
give  one  success  in  the  great  world.  The  flattery  and  com- 
pliments heaped  upon  me  from  all  quarters,  were  sufficient  to 
have  turned  a  much  stronger  brain  than  I  could  boast  the 
possession  of. 

The  reader  will  readily  perceive  that,  with  prudence  and  cir- 
cumspection, I  was  in  a  fair  way  to  lead  a  life  of  respectability, 
and  gain  that  position  in  the  world  so  eagerly  sought  for  by 
the  great  majority.  But  how  I  fell,  and  forfeited  my  rank  and 
station, — how  I  was  seduced  from  the  paths  of  rectitude  by 
yielding  to  the  passion  for  play,  remains  yet  to  be  told. 

Among  the  first  acquaintances  which  I  formed  on  my 

arrival  in  B ,  was  a  young  man  of  fashion,  whom  I  shall 

call  Finley.  With  him  I  became  intimate  in  a  very  short 
time.  He  seemed  to  be  the  very  essence  of  gentility,  and 
had  that  off-hand  dashing  air  of  freedom  and  frankness, 
which  is  so  attractive  to  one  just  entering  upon  the  pleasures 
of  life.  How  little  can  we  judge  from  appearances  !  I  now 
date  my  ruin  from  the  day  that  .[  was  thrown  into  the  society 
of  this  young  man 


CONFESSIONS    OF    A    GAMBLER.  15 

Until  then  I  had  been  a  student,  and  sought  all  my 
pleasures  in  books ,  I  had  an  instinctive  aversion  to  vice  in 
all  the  forms  -in  which  it  had  come  before  me.  But  here  it- 
came  in  such  seducing  attractions  that  it  stole  upon  me  in- 
sensibly. The  outworks  of  the  citadel  were  gained,  and  a 
lodgement  effected,  ere  the  garrison  became  aware  of  the 
enemy's  approach. 

Let  the  following  scenes  tell  the  story  of  my  folly  and 
weakness. 

As  I  was  strolling  down  the  most  fashionable  street  of 
B one  evening,  enjoying  the  fresh  air,  and  amusing  my- 
self with  the  crowds  of  people,  some  with  busy  looks,  and 
others  idle,  like  myself,  I  was  accosted  by  Mr.  Finley,  who 
was  accompanied  by  a  fine  looking  young  man  seemingly  of 
his  own  age.  In  the  most  agreeable  tone,  and  with  much 
apparent  satisfaction  at  meeting  me,  he  addressed  me 
thus  : — 

"  Ah  !  Harley,  my  dear  fellow,  how  do  you  do  ?  Allow  me 
to  introduce  to  your  acquaintance,  my  friend,  Mr.  Thomson. 
Thomson,  Mr.  Harley.  How  fortunate  that  I  have  met  you 
just  at  this  time." 

"  It  gives  me  much  pleasure  to  become  acquainted  with  any 
friend  of  Mr.  Finley,"  I  observed,  with  a  bow  to  Mr.  Thom- 
son. "  I  presume  that  you  are  a  stranger  in  the  city  ?" 

"  Why,  yes,'5  said  Mr.  T.,  "  I  may  call  myself  a  stran- 
ger ;  or  rather,  the  city  is  very  strange  to  me,  although  it  is 
my  birth-place  ;  so  many  changes  have  taken  place  during  ra^ 
absence  in  Europe." 

"  By  the  way,  Harley,  I  have  invited  a  few  friends  to  pass 
the  evening  at  my  rooms,"  said  Finley,  "and  it  will  give 


CONFESSIONS    OF    A    GAMBLER. 

• 

me  a  pleasure  to  introduce  you.  Only  a  little  social  party, 
and  if  you  do  not  play — do  you  play  whist  ?" 

"  That/'  said  I,   "  is  a  game  which  I  always  avoid." 

u  Say  no  more.  If  you  have  any  conscientious  scruples, 
of  course,  you  need  not  join  us  in  that.  Here  is  Thomson 
will  not  touch  a  card.  He  will  entertain  you  with  some  of 
his  incidents  of  travel.  Let  us  stroll  a  little  farther,  and 
luxuriate"  in  the  rays  of  these  charmingly  bright  eyes.  One 
might  almost  imagine  himself  in  Paradise,  there  are  so  many 
fairy  forms  flitting  before  him." 

And  thus  we  pursued  our  walk,  mingling  our  observations 
on  the  ladies  with  various  lively  and  piquant  chat,  in  which 
Finley  was  the  master  spirit.  Indeed  I  never  had  heard  such 
brilliant  conversation,  and  was  highly  delighted.  At  last  we 
arrived  at  Finley's  rooms,  and  then  for  the  first  time  he  threw 
off  the  strict  propriety  of  his  manners,  and  seemed  desirous 
of  making  us  entirely  at  ease,  by  giving,  in  the  most  skilful 
manner,  a  gradual  latitude  to  the  subjects  of  conversation. 
At  first  the  general  news  of  the  day  was  discussed,  and  the 
segars  we  smoked  served  to  create  a  slight  thirst,  which  was 
removed  by  a  glass  or  two  of  wine.  I  was  wholly  unused  to 
the  scene  in  which  I  found  myself,  and  quietly  yielded  to  the 
example  set,  in  order  that  I  might  not  appear  altogether  new 
and  inexperienced.  This  was  a  very  natural  and  not  unusual 
result  of  the  situation.  I  became  exhilarated  to  such  a  degree 
that  I  became  quite  talkative,  and  entered  freely  into  the 
lively  spirit  of  my  companions. 

Three  other  young  gentlemen  were  now  added  to  the  party, 
and  after  the  ceremony  of  my  introduction  to  them,  which,  in 
the  convivial  state  we  were  in,  was  soor  accomplished,  and 


CONFESSIONS    OF    A    GAMBLER.  17 

without  much  reserve,  (I  pass  over  much  tliat  was  said,  in 
order  to  confine  myself  to  the  chief  object  of  my  Confessions,) 
very  soon  the  cards  were  produced  ;  and  although  I  was  not 
a  little  excited  by  the  wine  I  had  drank,  I  could  still  perceive 
that  there  was  an  air  of  restraint, — a  sort  of  doubtful  look, 
and  a  little  by-play,  passing  between  Finley  and  his  friend 
Thomson. 

"Come,"  said  Finley,  "I  suppose  that  it  will  not  be 
agreeable  to  Mr.  Harley  to  join  us ;  therefore  we  will  leave 
him  to  the  mercy  of  Thomson,  while  we  play  a  few  rubbers. 
Take  a  segar,  Harley,  and  a  glass  of  wine." 

"  Never  fear,"  replied  Mr.  Thomson,  with  a  confident  air. 
"  With  Mr.  Harley's  conversational  powers,  we  shall  not  be 
at  a  loss  ;  besides  we  can  amuse  ourselves  with  the  vicissi- 
tudes of  your  play,  in  an  occasional  glance  at  the  games. 
You  understand  the  game,  Mr.  Harley,  I  presume." 

"  Tolerably  well,"  said  I.  "  My  friends  have  accounted 
me  a  pretty  expert  player,  in  past  times ;  though  of  late  I 
have  not  played  ;  and  indeed  have  avoided  it  altogether  since 
I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  gambling  was  sinful,  and  that 
it  was  dangerous  to  walk  even  upon  the  edge  of  the  precipice." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  returned  Mr.  Thomson,  in  a 
conciliating  tone  ;  "  although  I  do  not  play,  I  have  no  very 
strong  scruples  with  regard  to  it.  It  is  quite  an  innocent 
pastime, — not  indulged  in  to  excess.  But  among  friends 
and  gentlemen*)  who  of  course  do  not  wish  to  win  money,  I  do 
not  object  to  playing,  even  for  a  small  stake, — just  enough  to 
add  a  pleasant  excitement." 

I  responded  to  this  sentiment,  though  rather  hesitatingly, 
for  I  could  not  at  once  overcome  my  scruples.  Mr.  Thorn- 


18  CONCESSIONS    OF    A    GAMBLER. 


son  kept  up  a  rapid  flow  of  words,  sometimes  relating 
anecdotes,  of  his  adventures  in  Paris, — sometimes  speaking 
encouragingly  to  the  players,  and  then  skilfully  coming  back 
to  the  subject  of  my  aversion  to  cards,  and  gradually  sapping 
the  foundation  of  my  resolution  not  to  play.  During  our 
converse,  several  games  had  been  played  with  various  suc- 
cess, and  as  I  looked  on,  I  became  interested  more  and  more, 
and  when  two  of  the  players  rose  as  if  fatigued,  I  suddenly 
proposed  to  play  a  few  games  ;  for  I  thought  that  they  played 
badly,  and  pride  suggested  the  thought  that  I  could  do  better. 
Mr.  Thomson  seemed  unwilling  to  sit  down  ;  but  after  many 
Well  assumed  objections  and  much  feigned  hesitation,  finally 
consented.  The  question  now  was,  "  Shall  we  bet  ? — Only 
a  small  stake, — it  makes  so  much  more  interest.  Do  you 
bet  ?"  said  Mr.  Thomson,  turning  to  me.  "  Oh,  I  see  you 
don't ;"  for  I  hesitated,  and  made  no  answer. 

"  Well,"  remarked  Finley,  "  if  Mr.  Harley  does  not 
bet " 

"  Oh  yes"  I  interrupted,  "  it  is  of  but  little  consequence. 
I  have  no  objection  to  a  small  stake." 

"  I  bet  with  you  then,"  said  Mr.  Thomson.  "  How  much 
shall  it  be  ?  A  dollar — no  higher.  Positively  I  will  not  go 
higher.  Finley  have  you  any  of  that  old  brandy?  This 
wine  does  not  altogether  agree  with  me.  One  does  acquire 
such  a  habit  of  drinking,  in  Paris  !  The  water  is  so  bad  too, 
in  the  city,  that  it  is  absolutely  necessary  to  mix  something 
with  it  to  take  away  the  unwholesome  effects.  Mr.  Harley, 
allow  me  to  give  you  a  glass  of  wine ;  or  will  you  prefer  a 
little  of  this  good  brandy  which  I  see  Finley  has  produced. 
Yes,  I  thought  that  your  taste  was  above  these  insipid  wines, 


CONFESSIONS    OP   A   GAMBLER.  19 

That's  right.  I  see  that  you  are  a  fine  fellow.  Don't  you 
find  the  water  very  bad  ; — producing  a  sort  of  a ?" 

"  Why  ye-es,  I  have  imagined  that  there  was  something 
unpleasant  about  the  wa ." 

"  Say  no  more,55  said  Finley.  "  Brandy  for  me  :  good 
old  cogniac  against  all  the  wines  in  Christendom.  As  to  the 
Turks  and  Musselmen  generally,  they  pretend  to  abstain, 
but  the  sly  dogs,  I  believe  that  they  indulge  a  little  in 
private !  Come?  how  goes  the  game  ?  Six  tricks  !  Why 
Harley,  you  are  lucky,  or  you  play  better  than  we.  Three 
by  cards  and  two  by  honors.  Well  done,  Harley !  If  I 
were  a  blackleg  I  would  certainly  secure  you  for  a  partner." 

Oh  how  blind  I  was  !  How  plain  appears  the  cumiing  of 
these  young  gentlemen ,  now,  when  it  is  too  late — too  late  ! 
It  may  seem  strange  and  unnatural  that  I  should  have  so 
suddenly  fallen  into  the  snare  laid  for  me,  and  have  allowed 
myself  not  only  to  drink  to  excess,  but  actually  to  gamble, 
both  of  which  I  had  hitherto  held  in  abhorrence  ;  but  the  ex- 
perience of  many  a  young  man  will  prove  that  it  does  often 
happen. 

I  played  with  wonderful  success  throughout  the  evening, 
and  when  we  ceased,  found  myself  the  winner  o'  more  than  a 
hundred  dollars.  This  sum  was  a  mere  drop,  fc  r  I  needed  it 
not ;  but  still  the  fact  that  I  had  won  it  from  persons  whom 
I  thought  more  experienced  than  myself,  in  spite  of  the  little 
good  sense  I  then  had,  operated  powerfully  on  my  vanity  and 
conceit.  The  spark  was  produced,  and  by  the  skilful  fanning 
of  these  cunning  fellows,  flamed  up  into  a  strong  passion.  It 
is  now  wonderful  to  me,  that  I  was  so  lulled  to  rest  that  I  did 
not  suspect  them  cf  any  design.  Finley,  at  one  moment,  wa«* 


20  CONFESSIONS   OF 


GAMBLER. 


in  a  well  feigned  rage  at  the  loss  of  his  money,  and  seemed  to 
forget  his  gentlemanly  deportment.  Thomson  was  noisy  and 
talkative,  and  seemed  to  feel  the  drain  upon  his  purse  very 
severely  ;  —  complained  of  the  unlucky  "  run  of  the  cards." 
It  would  happen  so  at  times.  He  believed  in  changing 
partners  or  having  "a  new  pack  of  cards.55  With  a  half 
smiling,  half  mortified  look,  he  reproached  me  gently  for 
making  so  heavy  a  draw  upon  his  bank,  but  hoped  I  would 
give  him  an  opportunity  of  retrieving  his  fortune.  Elated  as 
I  was  by  my  success,  and  excited  too  by  the  wine  and  brandy, 
I  promised  to  give  him  an  early  opportunity  of  doing  so. 

The  cards  were  now  thrown  aside  and  all  was  a  scene  of 
hilarity  and  noise.  Finley  preserved  his  dignity,  and  seemed 
desirous  of  showing  that  he  had  a  strong  head.  Songs  were 
sung  of  a  very  equivocal  character,  and  stories  related,  still 
more  so.  I  went  home  in  a  state  bordering  on  intoxication. 

Strange  to  tell,  my  scruples,  which  were  so  strong  until 
now,  were  scattered  to  the  four  winds  ;  I  dreamed  of  my  suc- 
cess, and  a  wave  of  wealth  setmcd  to  flow  in  upon  me.  Now 
was  the  time,  when  any  strong  and  good  principles  would 
have  operated  to  show  me  in  what  a  dangerous  position  I 
stood  ;  but  alas  !  I  had  none.  I  now  see  that  I  was  only 
governed  by  a  desire  to  keep  up  appearances.  How  many 
are  prevented  from  being  actually  vicious  by  the  restraints, 
alone,  of  society,  and  are  amiable  and  virtuous  only  so  long 
as  they  are  not  tempted  ! 

The  relation  of  my  first  temptation,  and  the  scene  accom- 
panying it,  will  give  a  sufficiently  strong  idea  of  many  sub- 
sequent scenes,  all  tending  to  the  same  point,  —  my  complete 
seduction  into  the  paths  of  vice  and  ruin,  I  had  a  bounteous 


CONFESSIONS    OF    A    GAMBLER.  21 

supply  of  money  from  my  indulgent  parent,  whose  only 
thought  was  that  I  should  make  a  fine  appearance,  and 
display  to  advantage  the  accomplishments  and  learning  I  had 
already  acquired,  and  make  a  figure  in  the  fashionable  world. 
Little  did  he  think  of  the  result  of  these  views  upon  his  own 
fortunes  ;  and  could  I  have  foreseen  how  my  moral  sense 
would  become  deadened  and  lost,  and  myself  be  sunk  into 
the  lowest  acts  of  villainy,  I  should  have  shrunk  with  abhor- 
rence from  the  first  step, — the  little  beginning  which  led  me  to 
my  present  miserable  situation. 

I  shall  pass  hurriedly  over  the  principal  events  which  fol- 
lowed the  scene  of  the  fatal  evening. 

After  several  similar  scenes  in  which  my  success  was 
beyond  all  precedent,  the  tide  of  fortune  seemed  to  turn. 
Notwithstanding  the  heavy  losses  of  Finley  and  Thomson, 
they  maintained  the  most  polite  bearing  possible  towards  me, 
and  sought  my  society  on  all  occasions.  By  degrees  I  lost 
all  that  I  had  formerly  won  from  them,  and  by  such  skilful 
means  that  I  was  almost  unconscious  of  the  fact.  As  I  lost 
I  became  more  and  more  reckless,  and  madly  doubled  and 
trebled  my  bets,  till  at  last  I  was  more  than  a  thousand  dol- 
lars in  debt,  and  was  obliged  to  draw  upon  my  father  so  often, 
that,  with  all  his  liberality,  he  began  to  be  astonished.  At 
last  I  was  suddenly  recalled  home.  I  returned,  and  met  my 
father,  and  heard  his  mild  reproaches  with  dissembled  sorrow 
and  penitence.  For  a  time  I  appeared  to  be  reclaimed,  but 
the  demon  was  still  working  at  my  heart.  I  soon  found  the 
means  of  indulging  my  passion  for  play  in  private,  in  a  small 
way,  with  my  associates,  while  I  was  apparently  very  correct 
in  my  -1  sportment. 


22  CONFESSIONS    OF    A    GAMBLER. 

Meanwhile  my  father  had  met  with  some  heavy  losses  in 
the  stocks,  and  thought  it  necessary  to  enter  into  mercantile 
affairs  in  order  to  recover  himself.  I  assisted  him,  and  was 
at  last  made  a  partner  with  him.  The  hurry  and  press  of 
business  for  a  while  obliterated  my  love  of  play,  and  I  entered 
upon  the  duties  of  my  station  with  so  much  alacrity  and 
interest  that  all  traces  of  my  former  character  seemed  lost. 

How  deceitful  are  appearances  !  It  was  like  fire  concealed 
beneath  ashes  ;  and  the  passion  for  gambling  was  destined  to 
burst  out  afresh,  and  with  new  strength.  In  the  course  of 

affairs,  I  was  obliged  to  visit  the  city  of  R to  purchase 

goods.  Here  I  met  Finley  again,  and  led  away  by  his  seduc- 
tive manners,  in  an  unguarded  moment  I  accepted  an  invita- 
tion to  a  convivial  party.  I  went,  and  amidst  the  excitement 
of  drink,  forgot  my  half-formed  resolutions,  and  once  more 
seated  myself  at  the  card-table.  After  various  fortunes, 
during  which  it  would  be  almost  impossible  to  describe  the 
exultation  of  success  and  the  agony  of  loss,  which  I  ex- 
perienced, I  rose  from  the  table  stript  of  the  whole  amount  in 
my  possession,  and  nearly  tlie  same  amount  in  debt.  It  was 
a  debt  of  honor  and  must  be  paid. 

What  should  I  do?  I  knew  not.  When  I  sought  my 
couch  that  night,  or  rather  in  the  morning,  it  was  with 
swollen  eyes  and  an  aching  head.  Various  schemes  for 
retrieving  my  losses  passed  through  my  mind,  and  I  at  last 
fell  into  an  imperfect  sleep.  Horrible  visions  came  over  my 
sleeping  fancy,  and  when  I  awoke  it  was  with  a  sobered  head 
and  clear  view  of  my  situation,  more  agonizing  than  my 
dreams. 

After  revolving  a  thousand  plans  in  my  mind,  the  evil 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A    GAMBLER.  28 

spirit,  which  is  always  at  hand  with  most  cunning  suggestions, 
prompted  me  to  purchase  my  goods  on  credit.  My  father's 
name  and  reputation  as  a  business  man  being  so  well  known, 
I  accomplished  this  with  an  ease  that  surprised  me,  and  reno- 
vated my  fallen  spirits  wonderfully.  I  purchased  double  the 
amount  originally  intended,  and  after  shipping  part  of  them 
for  home,  sent  the  remainder  privately  to  a  neighboring  city 
where  they  were  sold  at  auction.  The  proceeds  of  the  sale  I 
placed  in  my  pocket,  and  after  writing  my  father  to  inform 
him  that  I  was  detained  by  sickness,  returned  to  pay  my 
debt  of  honor,  and  with  the  hope  of  recovering  what  I  had 
lost.  Vain  hope  !  Empty  delusion  !  I  was  in  the  hands  of 
most  consummate  villains.  I  played  fair ;  for  I  knew  not 
the  tricks  of  blacklegs.  Private  marks, — slipping  cards, — 
and  arranging  face  cards  so  as  to  throw  the  honors  all  into  one 
hand,  were  things  entirely  unknown, to  me.  I  never  dreamed 
of  them,  and  weakly  thought  that  all  were  as  honest  as 
myself. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say,  that  with  such  odds  against 
me  I  was  sure  to  be  the  loser.  I  lost  every  dollar  in  my 
possession ;  but  not  until  I  had  detected  one  of  my  adver- 
saries in  an  attempt  to  pass  a  card.  I  accused  him  of  it,  and 
the  result  was  that  he  threw  down  his  hand  in  assumed  anger, 
and  thus  mixed  the  cards  to  conceal  the  cheat.  He  then 
acted  the  innocent,  and  appealed  to  the  party  as  a  gentleman. 
[  still  accused  him,  for  I  had  plainly  seen  the  attempt.  He 
then  began  to  bluster  and  assume  the  bully.  I  became  in- 
censed and  called  him  a  scoundrel.  A  blow  waa  given,  and 
then  we  were  separated.  I  returned  to  my  lodgings  half  mad 
with  my  losses,  and  in  a  state  of  mind  bordering  on  phrenzy. 


24  CONFESSIONS    OF    A    GAMBLER. 


Finley  led  me  home,  and  seemed  anxious  to  calm  my 
feelings.  After  he  had  succeeded  in  this  to  some  degree,  ho 
threw  me  into  a  state  of  nervous  apprehension,  by  telling  me 
that  the  language  I  had  used  to  Morton,  (for  that  was  the 
name  of  my  opponent)  and  the  blow  I  had  given,  must  inevita- 
bly lead  to  a  duel.  A  duel !  I  exclaimed. 

"  Yes  a  duel,3'  said  Finley.  "  Do  you  think  that  a 
gentleman  can  put  up  with  such  language,  and  not  seek 
satisfaction  ?" 

"  But  I  will  not  fight." 

"  Then  you  must  be  disgraced." 

"  Is  there  no  alternative  ?  I  have  been  robbed — cheated, — 
and  yet  must  risk  my  life.  No  no,  Finley  that  cannot  be." 

"  Then  flight,  instant  flight  is  your  only  remedy  ;  Morton 
is  not  to  be  trifled  with.  This  is  not  the  first  aifair  in  which 
he  has  been  engaged." 

"  But  I  will  not  fly.  I  have  as  high  a  sense  of  honor  as 
any  man  living  ;  but  I  looked  not  for  this.  I  have  no  fear, — 
still  I  thought  not  of  this.  Do  you  think  he  will  send  a 
challenge?" 

"  He  will  most  certainly  do  so,  or  I  do  not  know  Henry 
Morton." 

Such  a  turn  of  affairs, — such  a  crowd  of  events,  one  upon 
the  other,  had  the  effect  at  first  to  almost  stupify  me.  I 
could  hardly  realize  my  situation.  A  thousand  fancies  of 
evil  flashed  on  my  mind.  A  gambler, — a  receiver  of  goods 
on  false  pretences, — an  ungrateful  son, — and  now  a  duellist ! 
All,  all  this  came  up  before  me,  and  overwhelmed  me  with 
shame  and  remorse.  I  was  interrupted  in  my  revery,  and 
roused  from  my  numbing  stupefaction  by  the  entrance  of  a 


CONFESSIONS    OF    A    GAMBLER.  25 

person  whom  I  recognized  as  having  been  a  looker  on  while 
we  were  playing.  He  came  from  Morton,  who  demanded  an 
immediate  apology,  or  a  meeting  as  soon  as  possible.  An 
apology  I  would  not  give,  and  in  the  desperation  of  the 
moment,  gave  the  conduct  of  the  whole  business  to  Finley  as 
my  friend,  and  retired — not  to  sleep,  but  to  pass  the  night  in 
a  state  of  mind  never  to  be  understood  or  conceived  of  by  one 
who  has  not  been  in  the  same  situation.  I  attempted  to 
write  to  my  father,  but  I  could  not  compose  my  mind,  and  at 
last  laid  down  my  pen  in  despair,  and  throwing  myself  upon 
my  couch  gave  up  to  a  hysterical  flood  of  tears,  from  which  I 
insensibly  sunk  into  an  uneasy  insensibility  which  could 
hardly  be  called  sleep.  I  was  roused  from  this  by  Finley, 
and  started  up  with  a  horrid  and  vague  sense  of  evil,  but  for 
a  time  could  not  fix  my  mind  sufficiently  to  recall  the  circum- 
stances of  the  past  evening. 

"  Come  Harley,55  said  he,  "  I  have  arranged  everything 
for  a  speedy  termination  of  this  affair." 

"  Affair  ?— what " 

"  Come,  come,  arouse.  The  coach  is  in  waiting  to  take  us 
upon  the  ground,  and  here  is  my  case  of  pistols." 

"  Pistols  !  Ah,  now  I  remember.  Well  I  am  ready. 
0  Finley,  Finley  !  you  know  not  what  feeling  I  have.  How 
will  my  father  bear  this  news  ?  But  there  is  a  strange 
fatality,  which  leads  me  on  in  spite  of  myself.55 

I  took  up  one  of  the  pistols,  and  the  touch  of  the  cold  steel 
sent  a  shuddering  thrill  through  my  frame.  I  then  seized  a 
glass  and  swallowed  a  large  draught  of  brandy, — unmixed 
with  water, — I  scarcely  tasted  it,  so  great  was  desperation  in 
which  I  was  plunged.  I  now  gave  myself  mechanically  into 


26  CONFESSIONS    OF    A    GA.MBLEil. 


the  hands  of  Finley.  All  was  like  a  dream.  I  have  only  an 
indistinct  recollection  of  the  cold  and  misty  morning  air, — • 
the  whirling  of  the  coach, — the  dimly  seen  figures  of  Morton, 
his  second  and  a  surgeon,  when  we  arrived  on  the  ground. 
We  took  our  positions,  and  the  instruments  of  death  were 
placed  in  our  hands.  All  was  hurried.  "  Are  you  ready  ? 
fire  !  one — two — three" — and  the  discharge  of  our  pistols  was 
almost  simultaneous.  Morton  sprang  into  the  air  and  fell 
upon  the  damp  earth  !  ! 

Then  came  the  thought  that  I  was  a  murderer  !  I  was 
hurried  into  the  coach  by  Finley,  and  fled,  as  though  pursued 
by  demons.  What  transpired  for  several  weeks  I  know  not. 
The  excitement  of  the  scenes  through  which  I  had  passed  was 
such,  that  a  fever  of  the  brain  was  induced,  and  when  I 
awoke  from  the  delirium  it  produced,  I  found  myself  in  the 
cabin  of  a  vessel  and  tossing  upon  the  ocean.  My  passage  to 
Liverpool  had  been  scoured  by  Finley,  and  I  had  been  tended 
by  the  kind-hearted  sailors.  I  will  not  dwell  upon  this  part 
of  my  story. 

Suffice  it  to  say,  I  recovered,  and  on  reaching  our  destina- 
tion, I  was  soon  lost  to  the  world  in  the  depths  of  a  populous 
city.  I  could  now  recount  the  various  plans  I  adopted  in 
order  to  support  life,  and  what  low  and  menial  labors  I  was 
driven  to  ;  but  I  forbear. 

I  have  wandered  over  the  world  an  outcast  from  society, 
and  have  sought  to  drown  memory  by  a  thousand  ways,  but 
never — never^  can  I  obliterate  from  my  mind  the  conviction, 
that,  in  the  eye  of  God,  I  am  a  murderer.  I  feel  convinced 
that  the  misfortunes  and  miseries  of  my  life  arc  mainly 
attributable  to  my  passion  for  play.  Every  one  thinks  that 


THE    INFANT.  27 


he  has  strength  of  mind  enough  to  preserve  himself  from 
excess.  So  I  thought ;  but  how  much  was  I  mistaken.  I 
not  only  ruined  myself  but  was  the  cause  of  the  ruin  of  a  kind 
father,  whose  property  was  seized,  when  the  deception  which 
I  had  used  was  discovered,  and  he,  obliged  to  labor  in  his  old 
age  to  support  life. 

Let  the  young  man  take  warning  from  my  fatal  course  and 
avoid  the  first  step,  and  let  him  remember,  too,  "  That  a 
man  cannot  gamble ,  and  be  honest." 

C.  K.  G. 


BY      AGNES      STRICKLAND. 

I  SAW  an  infant — health  and  joy  and  light 

Bloomed  on  its  cheek,  and  sparkled  in  its  eye  ; 

And  its  fond  mother  stood  delighted  by, 

To  see  its  morn  of  being  dawn  so  bright. 

Again  I  saw  it,  vi  hen  the  withering  blight 

Of  pale  disease  had  fallen,  moaning  lie 

On  that  sad  mother's  breast — stern  death  was  nigh, 

And  Life's  young  wings  were  fluttering  for  their  flight 

Last,  I  beheld  it  stretched  upon  the  bier, 

Like  a  fair  flower  untimely  snatched  away, 

Calm  and  unconscious  of  its  mother's  tear, 

Which  on  its  placid  cheek  unheeded  lay; 

Bat  on  its  lip  the  urearthly  smile  expressed, — 

"Oh  !  happy  child  '  untr'^i,  and  early  blest !JI 


28  HELEN. 


THY  bright  morning  sun 

Is  rising  in  its  beauty  ;  and  the  rays 

Thrown  from  its  depths,  as  irom  an  urn  of  fire, 

Are  richly  clustering  round  thee ;  how  thy  path 

Doth  glitter  in  the  gay  and  golden  sheen 

O'er  mount  and  blooming  vale  before  thee  shed  ! 

And  how  the  glories  of  maturer  years, 

Seem  to  await  thy  light  and  bounding  tread  ! 

A  coronal  more  rare  than  gems  or  gold, 

Of  living  excellence  they've  made  for  thee, 

Wreathed  in  the  blaze  of  mind's  enduring  heaveO| 

With  stars  of  never  fading  lustre  blent,  • 

And  wearing  as  a  circlet  the  stern  bands 

Of  virtue — firm,  inflexible  and  pure  ; 

And  thou  may'st  win  and  wear  it  in  its  pride 


Summer  hues 


Are  glowing  in  their  lustre  and  their  love 
On  thy  glad  countenance,  so  rich  in  smiles  ; 
Thou  art  the  flower  that  the  healthful  spring 
Hath  strengthened  into  beauty  as  it  passed, 
And  the  fair  dyes  that  paint  thy  lovely  cheeks 
Are  less  in  value  to  thee,  than  the  stores 
Thy  mind  hath  gathered  and  may  gather  yet, 
Ere  the  more  brilliant  light  of  womanhood, 
May  flash  the'r  splendors  on  thy  snowy  brow 


GENTLE    WORDS. LOVING    SMILES.  29 

And  there  are  mental  treasures  which  the  world 

Knoweth  not  of  j — nor  may  the  giddy  throngs, 

That  sport  like  butterflies  among  the  flowers, 

Sipping  the  sweets  of  pleasure,  and  that  sweep 

OR  with  the  flood  of  fashion,  ever  find 

The  hidden  mine  whence  these  rare  treasures  spring ; 

Would'st  know  where  thou  mayest  find  it  and  enjoy 

Riches  txhaustless  as  the  mind  itself  ? 

Take  up  thy  blessed  Bible,  and  turn  o'er, 

Page  after  page,  its  consecrated  leaves, 

And  ponder  well  the  purposes  of  Him 

Who  made  ihe  mind — noblest  of  all  his  works,— • 

To  contemplate  his  character,  and  live 

With  Him  forever  in  a  higher  state ; 

And  as  the  sheets  thy  fingers  may  unfold, 

May  the  eternal  God  unfold  to  thee 

The  treasures  of  his  own  immortal  truth. 

J.  N.  M, 


THE  sun  may  warm  the  grass  to  light, 

The  dew  the  drooping  flower, 
And  eyes  grow  bright  and  watch  the 

Of  Autumn's  opening  hour — 
But  words  that  breathe  of  tenderness 

And  sin iles  we  know  are  true, 
Are  wanner  than  the  summer  time, 

And  brighter  than  the  dew. 
3* 


80  THE    IMPORTANCE    OF    CHILDHOOD. 


SMI  if 

BY    MRS.    S.    A.    WENTZ. 

"  Childhood  !    happiest  stage  of  life, 
Free  from  care,  and  free  from  strife." 

WHEN  a  little  girl,  I  can  remember  having  two  kind 
hands  placed  upon  my  head,  and  hearing  the  above  lines 
repeated  to  me  in  a  sad,  regretful  tone,  by  a  gentleman  who 
was  at  that  time  unhappy.  I  half  started  in  surprise,  for  I 
had  looked  forward  to  maturity,  as  the  period  when  my 
various  trials  were  to  be  ended — when  I  could  do  as  I  pleased 
without  reproof — when  unalloyed  happiness  would  be  my 
portion.  I  thought  grown  people  did  not  think  half  enough 
of  trying  to  make  children  happy.  Such  were  my  thoughts 
at  that  time.  But  after  a  good  romp,  when  I  went  into  the 
house  and  peeped  into  the  parlor,  where  mother  had  com- 
pany, the  idea  of  being  obliged  to  sit  up  straight  in  a  chair, 
and  do  nothing  but  talk  the  whole  afternoon,  made  woman- 
hood seem  a  very  unfortunate  state. 

When  we  leave  childhood  in  the  distance,  and  become 
absorbed  in  the  busy  game  of  life,  wTith  its  pleasures  and  cares, 
we  are  apt  to  look  back  upon  our  earliest  and  strongest  im- 
pressions, with  a  light  laugh  at  their  nonsensical  simplicity. 
It  assists  us  in  the  study  of  character,  to  cast  a  glance  behind 
upon  circumstances  that  occurred  when  we  were  incapable  of 


THE    IMPORTANCE    OF    CHILDHOOD.  81 


forming  a  judgment  upon  them.  We  can  frequently  trace 
out  hidden  motives  in  others,  of  which,  at  the  time,  we  did 
not  dream.  We  saw  effects,  and  seldom  thought  of  causes. 
In  remembering  how  we  were  generally  treated  by  those, 
under  whose  care  we  fell  at  different  periods,  some  knowledge 
of  the  world  is  opened  to  us.  In  treasuring  up  memories  of 
our  own  impressions,  we  gain  a  knowledge  of  our  natural  dis- 
positions, unrestrained  and  uninfluenced  by  present  circum- 
stances, passions  or  prejudices. 

The  only  use  such  knowledge  can  be,  is  to  induce  us  1o 
make  stronger  efforts  to  curb  and  put  away  the  faults  that 
caused  us  unhappiness,  and  in  our  intercourse  with  children 
never  to  excite  the  evil  feelings  which  were  caressly  tampered 
with  in  our  own  case. 

Childhood  is  generally  regarded  as  of  too  little  importance, 
We  seek  to  know  the  characters  of  those  with  whom  we  asso  - 
ciate ;  then  why  should  not  the  turn  of  a  child's  mind  bo 
heeded  by  those  who  have  the  important  duty  of  directing  it 
as  they  will  ?  It  is  the  time  when  man's  noblest  feelings! 
should  be  quietly  but  continually  called  forth,  when  we  should 
learn  to  grow  mighty  in  moral  strength.  The  circumstances 
which  then  occur,  exert  a  powerful,  although  it  may  be,  an 
imperceptible  influence.  Through  life,  the  dreams  of  early 
days  linger  unconsciously  around  us- -well  would  it  be,  if 
they  always  clung  to  us,  with  a  softening  power ;  if  to  turn 
back,  were  only  to  remember  the  mild,  yet  steadfast  eyes,  thai 
lit  us  forward  in  our  heedless  path. 

I  can  vividly  recall  the  first  morning  I  went  to  a  regular 
school.     Whips  and  frowning  faces,  were  never  thought  of- 
all  was  to  be  f^rfectly  delightful.     I  was  about  five  years  old, 


82  THE    IMPORTANCE    OF    CHI.  DHOOD. 

when  these  erroneous  ideas  were  indulged.     It  was  a  clear, 

sunshiny  day  ;  and  from  six  o'clock  until  nine,  brother  C • 

and  I  were  in  a  frenzy  of  joyful  anticipation.     The  hour  at 

last  arrived.     C put   his  cap  on,  and   my  little  pink 

bonnet  was  carefully  tied  under  my  chin.  We  left  the  house 
and  walked  nearly  a  block,  very  demurely,  each  of  us,  holding 
a  hand  of  our  mother.  But  our  ecstasy  could  not  long  be  re- 
pressed. We  drew  our  hands  away,  and  bounding  forward, 
ran  a  race  to  the  school  house.  We  peeped  into  the  windows 
at  a  scene  which  was  intensely  interesting  to  us,  until  mother 
came,  reproved  us  for  our  rudeness,  and  knocked  at  the  door. 

Mr.  B opened  it,  and  bowed  to  mother.     We  went  in, 

and  C and  I  cast  down  our  eyes,  utterly  abashed  as  the 

great  man  smiled  upon  us,  patted  C 5s  head,  and  took  me 

upon  his  knee.     I  was  immediately  transferred  to  the  female 

department  and  fell  to  the  care  of  Miss  B .     She  wTas  in 

no  way  peculiar,  as  a  teacher.  I  believe  she  was  kind 
hearted,  but  she  had  no  sympathies  with  children.  She 
never  attempted  to  interest  them  ;  to  touch  in  their  hearts  a 
chord  that  would  vibrate  willingly  to  love.  This  was  not 
from  want  of  goodness  in  herself,  but  from  incapacity  to  per 
ceive,  and  adapt  her  thoughts  and  feelings  to,  the  states  of 
children.  If  she  felt  an  interest  in  us,  as  probably  she  did, 
she  checked  the  expression  of  it.  She  never  treated  us  as  if 
she  were  preparing  us  to  become  reasonable  and  reasoning 
beings.  If  she  caught  a  child  in  the  act  of  telling  a  false- 
hood, the  child  was,  of  course,  severely  punished ;  and  she 
lectured  us  all  on  the  evils  of  lying.  But  she  never  acted 
towards  us  as  if  she  felt  implicit  faith  in  our  uprightness  ;  as 
if  she  thought  us  incapable  of  telling  a  falsehood. 


THE    IMPORTANCE    OF    CHILDHOOD.  33 


We  cannot  know  how  fa.r  such  confidence  in  our  integrity, 
goes  towards  really  elevating  us.  Many,  many,  perhaps, 
bitterly  remember,  how  distrust  has  been  ground  into  the 
very  heart,  awakening  intense  anger,  and  chilling  every  feel- 
ing of  goodness  and  hope.  Miss  B gave  me  one  such 

bitter  lesson,  which  I  never  forgot,  and  I  turn  to  it  now  with 
feelings  of  regret.  When  I  was  about  seven  or  eight  years 
old,  I  began  to  study  Olney's  Geography.  I  was  thought  too 
young  to  use  a  map,  and  all  the  first  part  of  the  book  being 
skipped  over,  except  a  few  pages,  I  was  plunged  into  hard 
names,  which  conveyed  to  my  mind  no  meaning  whatever,  as 
my  lesson  was  never  explained.  Almost  every  day  I  had  a 
crying  spell.  I  finally  wrought  my  courage  up  to  the  highest 
pitch,  after  I  had  missed  every  word  one  morning,  and  asked 

Miss  B if  I  could  not  give  up  the  unconquerable  study. 

I  was  answered  in  a  decided  negative  ;  and  to  punish  me  for 
the  presumption  of  making  such  a  request,  my  lesson  was  ex- 
tended beyond  its  usual  length.  If  it  was  not  perfectly 
learned,  on  the  next  day  I  was  to  submit  to  a  severe  punish- 
ment. I  felt  that  I  was  treated  unjustly,  and  it  instantly 
awoke  in  me  a  spirit  of  anger  and  determined  opposition. 
We  were  obliged  to  recite  separately,  and  our  lessons  were 
studied  at  home.  I  can  recall  the  far-back,  stubborn,  un- 
happy feeling  with  which  I  returned  from  school.  A  sort  of 
vague  plan  was  formed  in  my  mind.  I  resolved  to  study  late 
in  the  evening,  and  early  in  the  morning,  as  long  as  could 
possibly  be  expected  of  any  scholar,  and  yet  I  had  a  secret 
hope,  that  in  spite  of  all  my  labor,  I  should  miss  my  lesson, 

and  convince  Miss  B that  it  was  useless  to  force  me.     1 

had  a  malicious  desire,  vhich  sprung  from  her  treatment  of 


34  THE    IMPORTANCE    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

me,  to  disappoint  her.  At  times,  the  thought  of  the  forth- 
coming chastisement  produced  a  strong  effect,  and  stirred 
some  quivering  fears  ;  but  combativeness  triumphed.  The 
moment  tea  was  over,  I  took  my  geography  in  one  hand,  my 
doll  in  the  other,  and  went  by  myself,  to  study.  I  took  the 
precaution  to  sit  by  a  window,  that  I  might  not  lack  for 
amusement.  I  read  my  lesson  over,  fast  then  slow  ;  sung  it 
to  every  tune  I  could  think  of ;  read  it  backwards  ;  then 
picked  out  the  words  beginning  with  capital  letters,  at  random, 
and  repeated  them  mechanically,  while  I  gazed  out  of  the  win- 
dow,  and  took  note  of  every  little  thing  that  occurred. 
When  it  became  dark,  I  went  out  of  my  solitude,  and,  by  the 
light  of  a  lamp,  pored  over  my  book.  Until  nine  o'clock,  the 
time  I  had  appointed  to  give  up,  I  kept  my  eyes  open.  How 
slowly  and  wearily  the  minutes  passed.  And  what  a  feeling 
of  relief  it  was,  when  I  was  once  more  in  freedom. 

In  the  morning  I  studied  an  hour  or  two,  then  marched  to 
school,  in  the  pleasing  consciousness  that  I  was  as  dumb  as 

ever.     I  exulted  in  the  thought  of  telling  Miss  B how 

long  I  had  studied. 

"  Ah  !"  thought  I,  with  a  glow  of  triumph,  "  now  my 
good  madame  will  consent  to  my  giving  up  geography — to- 
day will  see  the  end  of  hard  lessons."  I  felt  some  misgive- 

ness  as  Miss  B 's  eye  fell  upon  me,  when  I  entered,  but 

the  moment  she  looked  away,  I  tossed  my  book  into  my  desk. 
While  I  was  down  on  the  floor,  picking  up  some  beads,  she 
approached,  unseen  by  me,  and  struck  her  ominous  ruler 
upon  the  desk  with  a  loud  noise. 

.  "  Do  you  know  that  lesson,  Miss  !"  she  inquired,  sternly. 
I  started  from  my  recumbent  position,  and  my  heart  beat  like 


THE    IMPORTANCE    OF    CHILDHOOD.  35 

the  ticking  of  a  clock  as  I  opened  the  lid  of  my  desk  and 
drew  forth  my  book.  Before  I  commenced  reciting,  I  told 
her  very  impressively  how  long  I  had  studied.  After  list- 
ening to  the  first  few  words  of  my  lesson  and  finding  I  had 
nothing  more  to  say  on  the  subject,  she  threw  the  book 
aside. 

"  You  have  not  studied  this  lesson,  as  long  as  you  say  you 
have  !"  she  said,  eyeing  me  steadily. 

"  Oh !  Miss  B ,"  I  began. 

"  Hush  !  not  a  word,"  she  answered,  rising. 

"  I  hav'nt  told  a  story,  Miss  B ,''  I  implored  eagerly. 

"  You  can  ask  my  mother." 

"  Did'nt  I  tell  you  to  be  quiet !  You  have  not  looked  at 
this  lesson  more  than  ten  minutes.  Don't  speak  !  I  know 
you  have  not,"  and  she  turned  away. 

I  burst  into  tears;  angry  feelings  rushed  like  a  torrent 
over  me.  It  was  her  injustice  that  aroused  in  my  childish 
heart  something  like  a  desire  for  revenge.  She  walked 
slowly  out  of  the  door  and  through  the  yard  to  the  boy's 

department,  in  order  to  call  Mr.  B .  Oh  !  to  have  been 

in  freedom  then  to  have  spurned  her  threats,  and  to  have 
rushed  from  that  hateful  school  room,  with  a  laugh  of 
derision — how  sweet  it  would  have  been  to  my  excited  feel- 
ings. But  I  knew  if  I  did  so,  my  passionate  whims  would 
not  be  indulged  at  home,  and  the  thought  of  being  walked 
back  to  school  the  next  day,  had  a  restraining  effect.  Mr. 

B came  back  with  his  sister,  and  they  both  looked  down 

at  me  a  moment,  in  solemn  silence.  Finally  Miss  B 

said, 

"  Brother,   this  little  girl  must   be  taken  into  the  boy'a 


50  THE    IMPORTANCE    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

school,  and  stay  there  all  day,  as  a  punishment  fcr  t\vo 
things, — first  she  told  me  a  falsehood,  then  missed  her  whole 
lesson." 

I  burst  into  a  fresh  flood  of  tears  as  these  cruel  words  were 
spoken. 

a  Yes,"  she  continued,  "  every  boy  in  school  will  know 
how  bad  she  is!" 

Mr.  B led  me  into  the  male  department,  and  that 

ridicule  might  add  a  sting  to  what  I  already  suffered,  he 
placed  me,  with  an  ill-suppressed  smile,  between  two  of  the 
largest  boys,  and  bade  them  see  that  I  studied  all  the 
time. 

Ridicule  is  an  ungenerous  engine  of  punishment  towards  a 
a  child  ;  it  withers  up  every  warm,  frank  feeling,  arid  takes 
away  all  confidence  in  the  motives  by  which  a  teacher  may  be 
actuated.  It  awakens  feelings  which  can  never  be  indulged, 
even  by  a  child,  without  injury  to  the  deep,  kind  affections 
within.  A  gall  and  bitterness  is  imparted,  which  after 
actions  cannot  easily  cause  to  be  forgotten. 

When  I  caught  the  expression  of  Mr.  B 's  «face,  I  sud- 
denly resolved  not  to  look  at  my  lesson — to  be  perfectly  ob- 
stinate. For  some  time,  I  was  so ;  but  then  came  the  tender, 
relenting  state  of  mind,  peculiar  to  childhood,  after  every 
wrong  action  and  design.  I  reflected  that  I  was  sent  to 
school,  by  my  parents,  only  for  my  own  good.  I  though! 
how  much  was  done  for  me,  which  I  could  never  repay,  ex- 
cept by  being  obedient  and  grateful.  I  remembered  how 
kindly  my  mother  smiled  upon  me  when  I  had  done  well  in 
any  thing,  and  how  much  oftner  her  face  was  saddened  by 
iny  yielding  to  my  temper,  heedless  of  all  consequences , 


THE  IMPORTANCE  OF  CHILDHOOD.  37 

These  thoughts  came,  and  through  my  blinding  tears  I  beni 
over  my  book  and  attempted  to  study. 

Mr.   B came  along,   and  began  to  hear  me  recite, 

before  I  had  committed  one-fourth  to  memory.  He  rebuked 
me  sternly,  and  then  placed  a  high  stool  in  the  centre  of  the 
room,  upon  which  he  seated  me,  for  my  old  feelings  had  come 
back  again,  and  I  would  not  mount  it  myself.  Again  I 
resolved  not  to  gratify  him  by  studying.  I  forced  back  the 
thoughts  of  my  late  repentance.  I  tried  to  forget  the  gush 
of  regretful  feeling  that  poured  upon  me,  when  I  thought  how 
my  father  and  mother  would  be  grieved  if  they  could  look 
into  my  heart.  I  endeavored  to  banish  every  thing  from  my 
mind  but  the  idea  that  I  was  treated  cruelly  and  unjustly. 
The  morning  passed  away  and  part  of  the  afternoon.  Mr. 

B then  took  pity  on  me,  and  sent  me  back  to  my  own 

school  room,  no  wiser  in  regard  to  my  lesson  then  when  I  left 
it.  That  wretched  day  closed,  and  I  hurried  home,  feeling 
utterly  miserable.  My  sky  of  happiness  was  overcast ;  I  was 
saddened  and  exhausted  by  what  I  had  gone  through,  and  the 
thought  of  going  back  to  school,  on  the  next  day,  I  dreaded 
more  than  can  be  conceived.  I  could  have  knelt  and  prayed 
with  all  the  warnr  but  simple  fervor  of  a  child's  unhappiness 
for  a  release.  I  could  have  given  away  all  my  playthings — I 
could  have  consented  to  have  been  confined  in  the  house  all 
day.  Any  thing  would  have  been  preferable,  to  being  again 
a  prisoner,  in  the  school  room,  under  the  sharp  eyes  of  Miss 

*  B .     I  felt  as  if  no  one  loved  me  there ! 

Affection  towards  children  is  never  wasted.  In  after  years 
it  steals  upon  them,  when  the  cares  of  life  have  worn  upon 
the  spirit ;  when  g;rief  has  softened  it.  From  the  very 


38  THE  IMPORTANCE  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

depths  of  our  being,  there  well  up  innocent,  blessed  memories 
of  earlier  times,  that  chasten  our  hearts,  that  reprove  us  for 
unkind  words  spoken  heedlessly  to  some  gentle  being.  With 
spirits  made  better  and  kinder  from  such  remembrances,  we 
go  forth  into  the  field  of  duty,  and  more  earnestly  try  to 
overcome  all  that  is  unholy  within  us.  Oh  !  if  we  could  but 
realize  the  power  that  lies  in  childhood !  Its  unseen  influ- 
ences awake  in  our  souls  the  angel  voices  that  were  well- 
nigh  mute. 

Who,  that  in  childhood  has  had  the  tearful  eye  of  a  mother 
bent  for  a  moment  reproachfully  upon  him,  then  silently 
averted,  can  forget  it,  when  in  manhood  he  enters  into  the 
chamber  of  his  own  soul  and  stirs  up  its  by-gone  memories  ! 
His  bosom  seems  again  to  quicken  its  remorseful  throb ;  the 
repentant  tear  springs  to  his  eye  as  hastily  as  if  the  long 
past  scene  were  present  to  him.  With  a  keenness  of  regret- 
ful feeling  that  amounts  almost  to  agony,  he  bows  himself, 
and  the  haughty,  careless  man  of  the  world,  weeps  alone 
over  his  early  days — over  the  innocence,  the  kindness,  the 
love  that  have  fled  from  him.  He  thinks  of  hopes  which  his 
wasted  years  have  blighted, — of  affection,  which  his  selfish- 
ness has  ill  repaid.  He  resolves  and  re-resolves  to  be  a 
better  man, — his  proud  heart  pours  itself  forth  in  silence  and 
in  "prayer — the  hallowed  prayer  which  a  mother  had  taught 
his  infant  lips  to  murmur.  Such  feelings,  transitory  though 
they  be,  exert  a  holy  influence.  They  prevent  man  from 
becoming  entirely  debased,  but  they  are  not  to  be  trifled  with  ' 
'and  sinned  against,  as  an  idle  freak  of  fancy,  in  a  lighter 
mood,  or  they  bring  a  weight  of  guilt,  greater  than  if  they 
had  never  been  awakened.  They  are  wild,  sad,  yet  rich 


THE    IMPORTANCE    OF    CHILDHOOD. 


harmonies,  which  never  descend  into  the  thoughts,  except  the 
soul  has  been  softened  by  sorrow,  by  sympathy,  or  perhaps 
only  by  o  sudden  tone  of  affection.  It  sometimes  requires 
but  little  to  touch  a  chord  in  the  heart,  the  thrill  of  which 
may  last  forever. 

Who  can  recall  a  kind  act,  done  for  him  when  a  child, 
without  a  feeling  of  tenderness  ;  without  a  desire  to  be  kind 
himself  to  others  ?  How  many  guilty  beings  have  been 
arrested  in  an  evil  course,  by  having  an  apparently  slight 
circumstance  recall  their  purer  years  !  When  this  is  con- 
sidered, the  importance  of  always  feeling  kindly  and  tenderly 
towards  children,  seems  to  be  increased.  In  the  sternest  re- 
proofs, they  should  never  see  passion  nor  petulence  :  then, 
remembered  tenderness  will  exert  all  the  restraining  power  it 
should. 

Once  a  little  incident  occurred,  which  I  can  never  think  of, 
now,  without  a  sudden  thrill  of  deep  and  tender  feeling.  It 
was  but  a  slight  thing,  and  yet  the  earnest  recollection  of  it 
can  start  a  tear  in  the  gayest  mood.  One  afternoon,  on 
returning  from  school,  I  found  my  mother  upon  a  sick  bed  ; 
but  her  illness  was  more  of  the  mind  than  body.  She  was 
very,  very  sad.  I  began  to  play  alone,  in  one  corner  of  the 
room,  with  my  doll,  and  was  totally  absorbed  in  my  domestic 
arrangements,  when  she  called  me  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Kiss  me,  my  child,"  she  said,  as  I  stood  by  the  bed,  and 
her  eyes. filled  with  tears.  At  that  moment,  I  became  a 
k  woman  in  feeling.  I  comprehended,  for  the  first  time,  her 
sadness  and  depression — a  sadness  that  sought  affection  as  a 
relief.  I  could  not  define  my  thoughts,  but  I  felt  as  if  my 
heart  would  break  with  its  sudden  weight  of  emotion.  I  had 


£0  THE    IMPORTANCE    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

my  doll  on  my  arm ;  after  a  pause  she  took  it,  and  examined 
my  efforts  to  dress  it. 

"  You  may  go  to  the  bureau,  dear,"  she  said,  "  and  bring 
me  that  blue  satin  "you  wanted.  I'll  help  you  to  make  a 
dress  for  your  doll." 

My  heart  gave  a  bound  of  childish  gratitude  and  delight. 
Her  tone  seemed  to  say, 

"  The  power  of  conferring  happiness  is  not  taken  from 
me." 

The  impressions  of  children  are  transitory  and  changeful. 
My  sadness  departed  as  suddenly  as  it  came.  As  I  sat  by 
my  mother's  bedside,  and  watched  her  efforts  to  gratify  me,  by 
taking  an  interest  in  my  little  affairs,  I  was  filled  with  hap- 
piness to  overflowing.  Was  it  wasting  time  thus  to  amuse  a 
child,  when  no  duties  interfered  ?  Oh  !  no.  A  kind  remem- 
brance was  to  be  stored  up,  which  could  never  be  recalled, 
when  childhood's  visions  had  passed  away,  without  a  deeper 
power  to  soften  and  benefit. 

These  things  are  generally  too  little  thought  of  by  parents  ; 
tenderness  and  playfulness,  at  the  proper  season,  are  no  bar- 
riers to  a  firm  and  judicious  government.  No  dignity  is  lost 
by  sympathising  in  the  gay,  simple  feelings  of  a  child — to  the 
worn  bosom  it  brings  back  its  once  delightful  freshness ;  it 
awakens  the  innocent  joyfulness,  which  care  had  made  to 
slumber.  That  heart  must  be  cold,  indeed,  which  cannot  be 
made  sunny  for  a  moment  by  the  glad  ringing  laugh  of  a 
happy  child.  I  cannot  believe  that  a  person  who  possesses 
a  right  warm  heart,  ever  dislikes  children.  It  is  out  of  the 
nature  of  things. 

I  was  once  under  the  temporary  care  of  a  teacher,  who 


THE    IMPORTANCE    OF    CHILDHOOD.  41 

must  have  had  a  positive  antipathy  to  children.  Not  a 
scholar  was  young  enough  to  escape  a  whipping  for  the 
slightest  misdemeanor.  Mrs.  N once  sent  for  her  hus- 
band to  come  into  the  school  room,  and  chastise  her  little 
sister  for  a  trifling  fault.  While  she  had  charge  of  the 
school,  I  begged  mother  to  let  me  take  my  brother  Willie, 
who  was  about  three  years  old,  to  spend  an  afternoon.  He 
was  delighted,  and  his  bright  little  face  was  in  a  perfect  .sun- 
shine. When  I  entered  the  school  room,  I  felt  extremely 
proud  of  my  precious  charge.  After  taking  off  his  cap,  and 
brushing  up  his  hair,  I  lifted  him  on  the  seat  next  me,  with  a 
great  appearance  of  display.  I  had  finished  fidgetting,  and 
had  just  taken  up  my  spelling  book  to  study  quietly,  when 

Mrs.  N came  towards  me.  I  did  not  suppose  it  could  be 

in  her  heart  to  do  any  thing  but  to  smile  upon  him,  or  to  kiss 
his  happy  face. 

"  Here,  little  boy,"  she  said,  taking  his  hand,  and  jerking 
him  off  the  bench,  "  you  must  sit  with  the  little  children. 
No,  no,"  she  continued  as  he  looked  up  at  me,  with  a  fright- 
ened countenance,  and  then  burst  into  tears,  "  you  can't  sit 
by  your  sister  ;  come  along  !" 

She  led  him  away,  but  how  different  was  his  low  cry,  stifled 
by  fear,  from  the  pleasant  laugh  with  which  he  entered.  He 
was  naturally  a  brave  little  fellow,  and  his  hearty,  independ- 
ent laugh,  as  well  as  his  proud  self-will,  when  angry,  had 
always  seemed  to  scorn  every  thing  like  submission.  His 
young  face  was  now  wet  with  tears,  and  I  watched  with  pain 
its  sad,  quelled  expression,  as  he  followed,  with  his  eyes,  all 

Mrs.  N 's  me  tions.  Occasionally  he  looked  over  to  me 

imploringly,  but  1  could  only  try  to  smile  upon  him.  It  was 

4* 


THH    IMPORTANCE    J)F    CHILDHOOD. 


not  long,  however,  before  he  became  accustomed  to  his  situa- 
tion. I  soon  heard  his  voice  in  a  whisper,  then,  in  a  moment, 
he  forgot  himself,  and  his  shouting  laugh  broke  forth  as  free 
as  ever.  The  sound  startled  us  all.  He  sprung  from  his 
seat  with  a  loud  "hurra,"  and  chased  after  a  marble,  as  it 
rolled  on  before  him. 

"  Willie,  Willie  !"  I  whispered,  half  starting  from  my  seat, 
and  glancing  deprecatingly  at  Mrs.  N  -  .  He  looked  at 
me  with  a  gay  laugh,  but  when  he  saw  me  point  at  the  teacher, 
he  hurried  back  to  his  seat,  with  a  sobered  countenance. 
While  he  was  endeavoring  to  get  up  on  the  bench  -Mrs.  N  - 
approached  him,  and  struck  him  twice  with  her  ruler,  then 
lifted  him  up  on  the  seat,  in  a  harsh  manner.  He  burst  into 
tears,  and  put  out  his  little  hand  to  come  to  me.  But  Mrs. 
N  -  would  not  permit  such  an  indulgence.  The  scholars 
looked  first  at  him,  then  at  me,  with  pity  and  sympathy  on 
their  faces.  There  could  not  have  been  a  child  present,  who 
did  not  feel  an  awakened  hatred  towards  Mrs.  N  -  ,  which 
must  have  destroyed  all  the  influence  she  might  have  exerted 
for  good. 

I  felt  the  hot,  indignant  color  mount  to  my  forehead,  and  I 
could  almost  hear  the  beating  of  my  heart,  as  I  turned  away 
and  leaned  over  my  book,  upon  which  the  tears  fell  fast.  And 
yet  Mrs.  N  -  was  universally  regarded  as  a  very  excellent 
woman  ;  she  was  a  pattern  of  neatness,  and,  out  of  school, 
her  manners  were  quiet  and  dignified.  She  was  not  passion- 
ate, but,  spite  of  the  commendations  I  have  heard  pronounced 
upon  her  by  other  people,  I  cannot  change  the  conviction 
forced  upon  me  when  a  child,  which  was,  that  she  was  very 
cold-hearted.  Her  severity  seemed  systematic,  like  every 


THE    IMPORTANCE    OF    CHLLDHOOD.  43 

thing  else  that  concerned  her.  I  cannot  think  of  a  person,  as 
much  respected  as  she  was,  who  ever  appeared  to  me  to 
posse&s  less  feeling,  and  more  cold,  quiet  selfishness. 

Johnson  has  made  the  remark,  that  we  cannot  judge  im- 
partially of  any  thing  in  which  we  may  ourselves  have  been 
concerned.  I  do  not  entirely  agree  with  this.  But  it  may 
be,  that  the  aversion  Mrs.  N excited  in  me  towards  her- 
self, caused  me  to  exaggerate  her  faults  in  my  imagination, 
and  to  blind  me  to  the  good  qualities  she  might  have  poss- 
essed. I  have  spoken  of  her  conduct  as  a  teacher,  and  the 
impression  it  made  upon  my  childish  mind.  The  lasting  re- 
membrance I  have  of  it,  and  the  strong  evil  feeling  it  excited 
at  the  time,  convince  me  of  what  every  day's  experience 
verifies,  that  the  manner  in  which  children  are  treated,  pro- 
duces an  abiding  effect  upon  them,  for  good  or  for  evil. 
Many  are  the  philanthropic  institutions  springing  up  around 
us,  to  elevate  the  debased,  and  to  give  society  a  more  healthy, 
moral  tone.  Vigorous  efforts  are  being  made,  by  some,  to 
raise  our  light  literature  to  a  standard  of  high  moral  worth. 
Woman  has  stept  out  from  her  seclusion,  and,  taking  the  pol- 
luted drunkard  by  the  hand,  she  bids  him  hope ;  and,  by 
kindness,  she  warms  his  heart  to  humanity.  The  destitute 
beggar  child  is  led  to  a  home.  All  this  is  right  and  useful. 
But  we  can  never  see  society  in  the  beautiful  and  perfect  form 
it  was  designed  to  be  by  the  Creator,  unless  we  begin  at  the 
root  of  the  matter,  which  is,  to  place  our  hopes  on  the  influ- 
ences of  childhood. 

Let  children  live  in  a  healthy  mental  atmosphere;  let 
them  only  see  kindness,  love  and  uprightness,  and  they  will 
go  forth  into  the  world,  blessing  and  making  better. 


44  THE    IMPORTANCE    OF    CHILDHC    D. 

Should  wealth,  or  the  rich  gifts  of  intellect  cause  a  mother 
to  commit  her  children  to  the  care  of  hirelings  1  Surely  not. 
She  should  ever  be  near,  to  overshadow  their  tender  spirits 
with  her  love,  her  pure  thoughts,  her  untiring  devotion. 
Simple  it  may  seem,  and  perhaps  many,  on  whom  God  has 
bestowed  the  noblest  powers,  may  curve  the  lip  in  scorn,  at 
the  idea  of  wasting  brilliant  talents  in  the  nursery.  Is  it  a 
trifling  thing  to  lay  a  foundation  for  every  thing  that  is  noble 
in  humanity  ? — Is  it  a  trifling  thing  for  a  mother  so  to  direct 
the  hearts  of  her  children,  that,  after  her  eamest  cares  are 
done,  their  influence  may  be  elevating,  yet  innocent  and 
grateful  as  the  breath  of  spring's  earliest  and  sweetest 
flowers  ?  Is  it  a  trifling  thing  to  point  a  human  soul  forever 
onward  and  upward  ?  No  earthly  task  is  so  heaven-born  in 
its  greatness. 

The  influences  of  childhood  cannot  be  what  they  should, 
unless  a  regenerating  work  is  going  on  in  the  hearts  of  those 
whose  oflice  it  is  to  instruct  and  guide.  Children  must  see, 
in  their  parents  and  teachers,  earnest  efforts  to  do  right, 
spite  of  every  obstacle.  Otherwise,  precepts  are  of  little 
avail.  They  must  see  no  shrinking  feelings  yielded  to,  when 
the  stern  voice  of  duty  speaks.  Little  matters  have  more 
effect  upon  children  than  is  generally  supposed.  Few,  very 
few  are  the  parents  who  always  act  a  consistent  part  towards 
their  little  ones,  in  slight  matters  as  well  as  greater  ones.  A 
command  is  often  more  rigidly  enforced,  when  it  concerns  the 
convenience  of  parents,  than  when  disobedience  would  be  of 
comparatively  little  consequence  to  them.  Every  time  a 
child  is  permitted  to  do  what  he  knows  to  be  wrong,  a  serious 
injury  is  inflicted.  Tenderness  should  not  excuse  nor  palliate 


THE    IMPORTANCE    OF    CHILDHOOD. 


the  evil.  Many  a  deadly  blow  has  been  aimed  at  the  well- 
being  of  a  child,  by  the  false  tenderness  of  a  kind  but  mis- 
judging parent.  A  wavering  father  or  mother  very  soon 
becomes  the  submissive  instrument  of  a  child's  wishes. 
Boating  love  is  too  often  repaid  with  disrespect  and  contempt. 
It  seems  most  cruel,  yet  why  is  it  so?  Let  such  parents 
recall  the  childhood  of  their  ungrateful  offspring.  In  their 
own  conduct  they  read  their  sentence  of  misery.  With 
bitterness  they  may  say, 

"  Oh !  that  I  had  not  yielded  to  my  child,  when  reason 
urged  me  to  be  firm  and  withstand.  Oh !  that  I  had  looked 
up  to  God  to  strengthen  my  heart  against  the  blind  fondness 
that  destroyed  my  child." 

There  is  little  fear  of  loving  a  child  too  much  or  manifest- 
ing too  much  affection,  if  it  be  of  the  right  kind.  If  it  be  the 
true,  spiritual  love,  that  seeks  for  ever  the  souPs  best  good, 
through  pain  and  care  and  worn-out  feeling,  that  holy  love 
will  struggle  on.  Heed  not  the  trials  that  are  in  the  way  ; 
the  clouds  will  often  break  and  the  glorious  sunlight  will 
stream  in  from  heaven  itself  upon  your  own  hearts  and  those 
of  your  children. 


SONG. 


I  i  V  ft. 

BY    MRS.     MARY    ARTHUR, 

4k 

BEND  not  those  dear  eyes  on  me, 

With  a  look  of  chiding 
Now  that  in  their  depths,  so  lone;, 

Love  has  found  abiding. 
What  would  seem  a  rose  to  thee* 

'Reft  of  all  its  fragrance  ? 
What  would  summers  beauty  be 

Lacking  sunshine's  presence  ? 
Thus,  unto  thy  glance,  so  long, 

Love  has  added  beauty, 
That  its  absence  seems  a  wrong, 

And  its  gift — a  duty. 

II  I  give  thy  bosom  pain. 

If  I  need  reproving, 
Speak  to  me  in  earnestness 

Truthful  words — but  loving. 
Only  keep  within  thine  eyes, 

Kindness,  never  failing, 
And  its  gentle  power  shall  be 

More  than  all  availing. 
Not  the  winter,  not  the  storm, 

Spreads  fair  blossoms  o'er  thee ; 
Only  sunshine,  glad  and  wa'm, 

Wakes  them  into  glory. 
WASHINGTON,  D.  C 


TEMPTAMON. 


S 


BY   T.    S.    ARTHUR. 


THE  maxim  of  "  all  things  to  all  men,"  was  not  to  be 
found  in  Mr.  Fielding's  rules  of  conduct.  The  moral  pen- 
dulum of  his  mind  swung  to  the  other  extreme.  "  I  will  do 
what  is  right  for  myself  ;  and  what  is  right  for  me  cannot  be 
wrong  to  others." 

This  was  his  doctrine  ;  and,  properly  understood,  .it  is  the 
true  doctrine.  But  most  persons  interpret  religious  and 
moral  precepts  in  a  way  to  favor  their  own  inclinations.  In 
fact,  all  of  us  do  this  to  a  certain  extent. 

On  the  subject  of  drinking  spirituous  liquors,  the  mind  of 
Mr.  Fielding  was  clear.  He  was  satisfied  that  the  introduc- 
tion of  alcohol  into  the  human  stomach  was  injurious.  But, 
in  regard  to  wine,  he  differed  from  the  great  body  of  temper 
ance  advocates.  Wine,  he  said,  was,  like  bread,  a  good 
thing;  and  it  was  not  only  lawful,  but  right  to  use  it.  He 
assumed  that  wine  was  not  evil,  from  the  fact  that  it  was 
ordered  to  be  used  in  the  Sacrament  of  the  Lord's  Supper, 
that-  most  holy  of  all  acts  of  worship.  For  so  holy  a  purpose, 
he  argued,  the  Divine  Being  would  not  have  selected  any 
earthly  thing  that  was  not  good  in  itself 

"  Why  were  the  elements  of  bread  and  wine  chosen  foi  so 


•18  TEMPTATION. 


sacred  a  ceremony  ?"  he  asked,  while  in  debate  on  this  sub- 
ject with  a  warm  opponent  of  his  peculiar  belief. 

"  I  do  n't  know  that  I  can  answer  your  question,"  was 
replied. 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  said  Mr.  Fielding,  speaking  with  some 
enthusiasm.  a  All  things  in  nature  correspond  to  and  repre- 
sent spiritual  things,  because  therein  lies  their  origin.  There 
is  nothing  in  the  material  world  which  is  not  the  product  of  a 
spiritual  cause.  Bread  and  wine,  therefore,  are  the  fixed 
ultimates  of  something  spiritual ;  and  the  fact  that  they  have 
been  selected  for  use  in  one  of  the  sacred  mysteries  of  the 
church  shows  that  they  correspond  to  something  pure  and 
excellent.  In  the  Holy  Supper  we  find  an  image  of  regen- 
eration, which  is  effected  by  the  life  of  truth  and  the  appro- 
priation of  goodness  from  Heaven.  The  natural  reception  of 
bread  and  wine,  in  the  ordinance,  corresponds,  therefore,  to 
the  spiritual  reception  of  goodness  and  truth  ;  and  I  argue, 
from  this  use  of  these  elements,  that  bread  corresponds  to 
good  and  wine  to  truth.  In  other  words,  that  the  Divine 
goodness,  in  descending  through  the  heavens  and  flowing  down 
to  the  lowest  natural  and  fixed  plain,  subsides  in  bread,  as 
that  substance  which,  in  the  highest  degree,  nourishes  the 
natural,  as  goodness  nourishes  the  spiritual  body  ;  and  that 
the  Divine  truth  in  like  manner  finds  its  lowest  intimation  in 
"vine." 

"  Then  why  ?"  asked  the  other,  "  does  wine  produce 
intoxication  ?" 

"  Pure  wine  will  not  do  so,  unless  taken  in  immoderate 
quantities." 

"  Is  there  any  pure  wine  to  be  obtained  ?" 


TE1IPTATION.  49 


ci  But  little,  I  must  acknowledge." 

"  Yet  a  vitiated  appetite  even  pure  wine  will  inflame  and 
lead  inevitably  to  excess." 

"  And  so,  to  an  inflamed  eye,  will  the  light  of  heaven  come 
with  a  destructive,  rather  than  a  salutary  influence.  But, 
surely,  for  this  reason,  you  would  not  exclude  the  light  from 
all.  Truth,  to  which  wine  corresponds,  when  received  into 
the  mind  of  an  evil  man,  is  changed -into  what  is  false,  and 
injures  rather  than  benefits.  Yet  not  for  this  would  you  shut 
out  the  rays  of  truth  and  leave  the  world  in  mental  darkness." 

"  Admit,  for  the  sake  of  argument,  what  you  say  ;  and  yet 
the  general  use  of  wine,  even  if  it  be  pure,  is  to  be  condemned 
on  the  same  principle  that  you  would  condemn  the  admission 
of  strong  light  into  the  room  of  a  man  who  was  suffering  from 
a  diseased  eye." 

"  Why  so  1" 

"  Because  a  tendency  to  excessive  drinking  has  become 
hereditary  in  the  community.  Until  this  be  overcome,  even 
your  pure  wine  cannot  be  taken  without  danger." 

"  I  rather  doubt  that.  Wine  perfectly  pure  will  not,  I 
am  inclined  to  believe,  inflame  the  appetite." 

"  I  thought,  just  now,  that  you  made  a  different 
admission." 

"  If  so,  it  was  without  proper  reflection.  Nine  tenths  of 
the  stuff  called  wine  is  a  decoction  of  drugs,  and  poisons  the 
stomach.  This  is  the  reason  why  wine  drinking  is  just  as 
bad  as  brandy  drinking,  and  sometimes  worse  ;  for  brandy 
might  almost  be  called  harmless  when  compared  with  a  great 
deal  of  the  stuff  that  is  sold  under  the  name  of  wine." 

"  I  should  be  afraid  to  put  a  glass  of  the  purest  wine  that 

5 


50  TEMPTATION. 


ever  was  made  to  the  lips  of  a  man  who  had  once  been  in 
the  habit  of  intoxication. 

"  I  wrould  not  hesitate,"  said  Mr.  Fielding. 

"  You  would  not  ?" 

"  No.  Every  man,  to  be  a  true  man,  must  be  in  rational 
freedom  ;  and  no  one  is  in  such  freedom  who  cannot  drink  a 
glass  of  pure  wine  without  being  led  astray." 

"  Yet  many  must  inevitably  be  led  astray  under  such  a 
system  of  license." 

"  As  I  said  before,  I  doubt  this.  But  even  if  it  is  so,  I 
am  not  responsible.  Wine  is  a  good  gift  and  I  am  not  the 
one  to  withhold  it  as  an  evil  thing.  With  those  who  abuse 
it  must  lie  the  responsibility.  As  well  might  you  ask  to 
have  the  light  of  heaven  shut  out." 

"  And  so  I  would  in  particular  cases  of  disease,  such  as 
you  have  mentioned." 

a  I  cannot  know  who  are  or  who  are  not  afflicted  with  either 
an  hereditary  or  acquired  love  of  intoxicating  drinks,  and, 
therefore,  I  can  attempt  no  discriminations.  I  know  wine  to 
be  a  good  thing,  and,  therefore,  I  will  continue  to  use  it  and 
also  set  it  before  my  friends.  If  any  abuse  the  natural 
blessing,  with  them  must  rest  the  consequences.  I  will  act 
right  as  far  as  I  am  concerned.  If  others  act  wrong,  they 
are  alone  to  blame." 

Finding,  after  repeated  attempts  to  do  so,  that  he  could 
make  no  impression  on  the  mind  of  Mr.  Fielding,  the  indi- 
vidual with  whom  he  was  conversing  changed  die  subject. 

In  his  views  Mr.  Fielding  was  perfectly  sincere.  He  was 
a  man  of  great  self-control,  integrity  of  purpose,  and  inde- 
pendent feeling.  He  was  proud,  too,  in  his  individuality 


TEMPTATION.  51 


and  this  led  him  to  act  with  less  reference  to  his  conduct  as 
affecting  those  around  him  than  might  otherwise  have  been 
the  case.  His  cellar  was  stocked  with  the  best  of  wine,  as 
pure  as  it  was  in  his  power  to  obtain.  This  was  used 
habitually  in  his  family  and  invariably  set  before  his 
friends. 

Mr.  Fielding  had  an  only  daughter,  who  was  a  favorite 
with  all  who  knew  her.  Her  face  had  a  gentle  beauty,  that, 
once  seen,  impressed  itself  upon  the  mind  and  lived  there  as 
an  image  of  purity  and  loveliness.  Her  name  was  Rose.  It 
so  happened,  about  the  time  Rose  attained  her  nineteenth 
year,  that  she  met  a  young  man  named  Forrester,  the  son  of 
an  old  friend  of  her  father's  who  lived  in  the  West.  In 
early  life  Mr.  Forrester  and  Mr.  Fielding  had  been  almost 
inseparable,  and,  in  the  mind  of  the  latter,  the  memory  of  his 
old  friend  had  always  been  a  green  spot.  They  separated  at 
twenty -five  and  had  never  met  since. 

"  I  saw  a  young  man  at  Mrs.  Webster's,"  said  Rose  to 
her  father,  after  her  meeting  with  Forrester,  "  who  says  that 
his  father  and  you  were  once  intimate  friends." 

"  Did  you  1     What  is  his  name  ?" 

"  Mr.  Forrester." 

"  Forrester  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Fielding,  taken  by  surprise. 
"  Forrester !  Can  it  be  possible !  Yes,  my  earliest  and 
most  intimate  friend  was  named  Forrester.  And  so  his  son 
is  in  the  city  !  What  is  he  doing  here  ?" 

But  Rose  could  not  answer  this  last  question. 

Mr.  Fielding  had  a  great  many  enquiries  to  make  as  to  the 
young  man's  age,  appearance,  character  and  manners,  to  all 
of  whi^b  his  daughter  was  competent  to  give  little  more  than 


TEMPTATION. 


half  satisfactory  replies.  At  the  earliest  convenient  moment, 
he  ascertained  where  Forrester  was  to  be  found,  and  called 
upon  him.  He  found  him  a  young  man  of  education,  intelli- 
gence, agreeable  manners,  and,  as  far  as  a  first  interview 
would  enable  him  t^  judge,  of  good  principles.  His  father 
had  been  dead  for  some  years,  and  he  conveyed  to  Mr. 
Fielding  his  first  knowledge  of  that  fact. 

In  accordance  with  a  pressing  invitation,  Forrester  returned 
the  call  of  his  father's  old  friend.  It  so  happened,  that  Mr. 
Fielding  was  not  at  home,  but  his  daughter  received  his  visit, 
which,  to  her,  as  she  had  met  him  previously  and  he  was 
gentlemanly  and  agreeable,  proved  a  pleasant  one.  Even 
before  knowing  who  he  was,  on  first  meeting  him,  her  mind 
had  taken  a  prepossession  in  his  favor  and  on  his  part  the 
feeling  was  reciprocal.  « 

After  chatting  freely  and  pleasantly  for  half  an  hour,  For- 
rester made  a  move  as  if  he  were  about  to  retire,  when  Rose 
said,  rising, 

"  Wait  a  few  moments,"  and  left  the  room. 

She  soon  returned  with  a  small  waiter  in  her  hand,  upon 
which  was  wine  and  glasses.  She  did  not  observe  the  sudden 
change  that  went  over  the  young  man's  face  as  she  entered. 
Even  if  she  had  done  so.  she  would  not  have  coir  preh ended 
its  meaning. 

"  Will  you  have  a  glass  of  wine  ?"  said  she,  with  a  smiling 
invitation,  as  she  approached  Forrester. 

For  a  moment  the  young  maji  paused,  and,  to  Rose, 
appeared  as  if  he  were  about  to  decline  the  proffered  refresh- 
ment, but  the  indecision  was  only  for  an  instant. 

"  If  I  were  an  anchorite,  I  could  not  refuse  it  from  youi 


TEMPTATION. 


hands/5  said  he,  as  he  took  the  decanter  and  filled  both  the 
glasses  that  were  on  the  waiter. 

"  And,  now,  to  your  good  health  and  that  of  your  excellent 
father,"  he  added,  as  he  lifted  a  glass  and  raised  it  to  his 
lips. 

"  Excellent !"  he  remarked,  on  sipping  a  portion  of  tho 
generous  liquor.  "  I  have  never  tasted  a  better  wine." 

"  My  father  is  choice  in  his  selection  of  wine,"  was  tho 
young  girl's  simple  reply. 

Forrester  remained  chatting  with  increased  freedom  for 
another  half  hour,  in  which  time  he  filled  his  glass  twice. 
He  then  went  away,  promising  to  call  again,  and  expressing 
the  hope  that  he  would  be  more  fortunate  in  finding  Mr. 
Fielding  at  home. 

The  more  intimate  association  with  the  young  man,  which 
this  visit  afforded,  had  the  effect  of  giving  to  the  mind  of 
Rose  a  very  favorable  impression.  To  say  that  she  was 
merely  pleased  with  him  would  not  convey  an  idea  of  her 
true  feelings ;  something  about  him  touched  her  more 
deeply,  and  Forrester  was  no  less  pleased  with  the  lovely 
young  girl. 

From  that  time  the  heart  of  Rose  beat  with  a  new  im- 
pulse, and  a  thought  of  the  young  man  was  sufficient  to 
awaken  a  ripple  on  the  surface  of  her  feelings.  She  felt  to- 
wards him  as  she  had  never  felt  towards  any  man  before. 

A  week  elapsed  and  Forrester  did  not  repeat  his  visits. 
Rose  had  expected  him  within  that  time  ;  for,  not  having 
found  her  father  at  home,  she  inferred  that  he  would  take  an 
early  opportunity  to  call  again. 

"  I  have  rather  unpleasant  news,"  said  Mr,  Fielding  to 

a* 


TEMPTATION. 


his  daughter  about  this  time.  He  looked  serious  -as  he 
spoke. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  enquired  Rose,  her  own  face  reflecting 
that  of  her  father. 

"  I  met  young  Forrester  in  the  street  to-day,  so  much  in- 
toxicated that  he  did  not  know  me." 

The  face  of  Rose  grew  instantly  pale ;  she  made  an  effort 
to  speak,  but  her  lips  quivered  so  that  she  suppressed  the 
words  that  were  upon  them. 

"  Oh  dear  !"  added  Mr.  Fielding,  "  it  is  sad  to  see  a  man, 
just  in  the  freshness  of  his  early  spring-time,  thus  abandon- 
ing himself  to  a  vice  that  ruins  both  soul  and  body.  To 
think  that  the  son  of  my  old  friend  should  be  the  victim  of  so 
degrading  an  appetite  !" 

Peace,  which  had  nestled  since  childhood  in  the  heart  of 
the  fair  young  girl,  spread  its  wings  and  departed.  A  little 
while  afterwards  she  was  alone  in  her  own  chamber  weeping. 
If  the  simple  announcement  of  the  fact  that  Forrester  was 
seen  intoxicated  affected  her  so  deeply,  how  much  more  pain- 
ful was  the  conviction,  soon  after  forced  upon  her.  that  she 
had  caused  his  fall. 

Rose  was  on  a  visit  to  the  lady  at  whose  house  she  had  met 
the  young  man  a  few  days  subsequently,  when  the  latter 
said, 

"  You  remember  Mr.  Forrester,  who  was  here  on  the 
evening  I  had  company  ?  I  have  sad  news  to  tell  you  about 
him.  It  appears  from  what  my  husband  has  been  able  to 
learn,  that  his  father  was  for  a  great  many  years  before  his 
death  in  habits  of  intemperance.  And  that  the  son  derived 
from  his  father  a  natural  fondness  for  stimulating  drinks- 


TEMPTATION ,  55 


which  showel  itself  at  a  very  early  age.  Before  he  attained 
his  twentieth  year  he  was,  to  use  plain  but  true  language,  a 
drunkard.  The  death  of  old  Mr.  Forrester,  which  took 
place  under  sad  and  revolting  circumstances,  occasioned  as  it 
was  by  drinking,  startled  his  son  and  made  on  him  so  strong 
an  impression,  that  he  solemnly  vowed  to  himself  never  again 
to  taste  even  wine.  He  was  led  to  this  entire  abstinence 
from  all  exhilarating  beverage  at  so  early  an  age,  from  a 
conviction  forced  upon  him  by  the  reasoning  of  friends,  who 
satisfied  his  mind  that  the  habit  of  drinking  to  excess,  which 
his  father  had  indulged,  was  transmitted  to  him  in  an  undue 
fondness  for  the  same  indulgence,  and  that  he  could  not 
taste  even  wine  without  having  his  appetite  so  inflamed  as  to 
be  in  great  danger.  For  years  he  kept  faith  with  himself  in 
this  matter.  Let  him  be  where  he  would  and  with  whom  he 
would,  he  steadily  declined  tasting  any  stimulating  drink. 
Alas  !  that  he  should  have  been  tempted  from  the  right  way 
by  one  of  our  own  sex.  It  is  said,  that  he  visited  a  short 
time  since  a  young  lady  in  this  city,  who  offered  him  a  glass 
of  wine.  In  a  moment  of  weakness,  he  took  the  cup  from  her 
hand,  drank — and  fell !  I  would  not  be  that  young  lady  for 
the  world  !  What  a  fearful  responsibility  has  she  brought 
upon  herself!" 

It  was  impossible  for  Rose,  on  hearing  this,  to  conceal  her 
emotions  ;  and  to  the  lady's  surprise,  for  she  did  not  know 
her  to  be  the  person  to  whom  she  made  allusion,  she  lost  the 
entire  control  of  her  feelings  and  hiding  her  face  with  her 
hands  yielded  to  a  passionate  gush  of  tears.  What  was 
said  could  not  be  softened,  and  the  lady  made  no  attempt 
to  do  so.  She  understood,  without  explanation,  that  it 


TEMPTATION. 


was  Rose  who  had  tempted  Forrester  and  caused  him 
to  fall. 

The  young  girl,  as  soon  as  she  could  gain  sufficient  control 
over  her  feelings,  started  for  home.  Few  sadder  beings 
could  have  been  found  in  the  whole  city.  But  yesterday,  she 
was  a  light-hearted,  happy  young  creature,  on  whose  spirit 
but  few  clouds  had  ever  rested  and  they  not  dense  enough  to 
shut  out  entirely  the  warm  sunshine.  Now,  she  was  unutter- 
ably wretched.  As  she  hurried  along  the  street,  on  her  way 
to  her  father's  house,  she  suddenly  encountered  Forrester. 
Alas  !  how  was  he  changed !  His  eyes  were  red,  his  face 
distorted  from  its  former  calm,  gentlemanly,  intelligent  ex- 
pression, and  in  his  whole  appearance  and  manner  there  was 
an  air  of  personal  abandonment.  He  did  not  see  her.  How 
like  a  daguerreotype  impression  was  the  form  of  the  young 
man,  as  he  thus  passed  before  her,  instantly  fixed  upon  her 
memory  !  At  home,  in  the  solitude  of  her  chamber,  she 
looked  at  the  painful  image,  while  a  voice,  with  rebuking 
tones,  uttered  in  her  ears,  "  This  is  your  work  !" 

"  And  mine  must  be  the  work  of  restoration,"  said  she, 
with  a  sudden  energy  of  manner,  while  a  flush  of  enthusiasm 
went  over  her  face. 

The  idea,  intimated  •  by  these  words  of  the  maiden,  came 
like  a  dictate  to  her  mind  ;  and  she  felt,  almost  instantly,  in- 
spired with  a  solemn  purpose. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  murmured,  while  her  tears  ceased  to 
flow,  "  mine  must  be  the  work  of  restoration." 

While  the  enthusiasm  of  this  first  state  remained,  Rose  felt 
that  the  work  she  contemplated  would  be  of  easy  perform- 
ance. But  as  she  thought  longer  and  longer,  and  came. 


TEMPTATION.  57 


more  realizingly,  into  the  perception  of  what  she  purposed 
doing,  her  native  delicacy  of  feeling  shrunk,  like  the  leaf  of  a 
sensitive  plant,  from  the  exposure  any  attempt  to  approach 
the  young  man  must  subject  her.  The  imputation  of  motives 
bj  others,  and  the  certainty  of  being  misunderstood  and  mis- 
represented, came  next  to  throw  a  chill  over  her  generous 
spirit  and  to  occasion  a  long  and  severe  contest  in  her  mind. 
But  her  resolution,  spontaneous  and  impulsive  as  it  was, 
became  permanent,  and  in  a  heroic  and  self-sacrificing  spirit 
for  one  so  young,  in  the  secrecy  of  her  own  heart  she  pondered 
the  course  of  action  best  for  her  to  adopt  so  as  to  ensure  the 
most  certain  result.  Her  first  idea  was,  to  write  to  For 
rester  in  the  plainest  and  frankest  manner,  but  the  fear 
that  this  might  fail  in  effecting  what  she  desired  caused  her 
to  turn  from  it,  and  with  a  sense  of  shrinking  contemplate  a 
personal  approach  to  the  young  man.  The  more  closely  she 
looked  at  the  subject,  the  more  painful  became  her  sense  of 
reluctance.  But,  inspired  by  a  feeling  of  duty,  she  bravely 
kept  by  her  resolve  to  do  whatever  was  in  her  power  for  the 
young  man's  restoration. 

The  thought  of  confiding  to  her  father  what  she  contem- 
plated doing  presented  itself  to  the  mind  of  Rose,  but, 
satisfied  that  he  would  not  only  object  to  any  such  course  of 
action,  but  positively  forbid  her  attempting  to  see  *.  r  commu- 
nicate with  Forrester,  she  determined  to  keep  her  own 
secret. 

As  for  the  unhappy  young  man,  on  receiving .  from  the 
hand  of  Rose  the  first  glass  of  wine  he  had  tasted  for  a  long 
time,  he  felt  his  old  appetite  returning.  And,  on  leaving  her 
presence,  so  intense  was  the  desire  ho  felt  for  a  stronger 


58  TEMPTATION. 


stimuiant,  that,  with  a  kind  of  mad  abandonment  of  his  rational 
self-control,  he  went  direct  to  a  tavern  and  drank  brandy  and 
water  until  he  was  so  much  intoxicated  as  scare  ;ly  to  be  able 
to  reach  his  boarding  house.  Daylight  found  him,  on  the 
next  morning,  in  a  state  of  mental  anguish  intolerable  to  be 
borne.  He  had  fallen  again,  and  fallen  through  temptation 
thrown  in  his  way  by  a  young,  innocent  and  beautiful  girl, 
who  had  already  inspired  him  with  a  sentiment  of  affection, 
and,  in  falling,  had  debased  himself  in  her  eyes.  To  drown 
his  wretchedness,  in  a  spirit  of  self-abandonment,  he  put  the 
cup  again  to  his  lips  and  drank  until  reason  left  again  her 
throne  in  his  mind.  And  this  was  continued  day  after  day, 
until  nature  was  nearly  exhausted. 

A  little  over  a  week  had  gone  by  since  the  melancholy 
change  in  his  hab.Hs  and  there  was  a  lucid  interval  in  which 
reason  once  more  strove  for  the  mastery.  On  the  night 
before  he  had  come  home  late,  so  much  intoxicated  that  the 
servants  had  to  take  him  to  his  room  ;  and,  in  the  morning, 
he  had  felt  too  sick,  both  in  body  and  mind,  to  leave  his  bed. 
He  did  not  come  down  until  about  the  middle  of  the  after- 
noon, when  he  was  perfectly  sober,  but  wretched  as  a  man 
could  well  be.  Inclination  prompted  him  to  go  out  and 
drown  the  burning  desire  he  felt  in  the  maddening  bowl, 
while  reason  and  conscience  held  him  back.  The  struggle 
had  become  severe,  and  appetite  was  about  conquering,  when 
he  heard  his  name  mentioned,  in  a  woman's  voice,  at  the 
street-door  where  the  waiter  had  gone  to  answer  the  bell. 
Before  he  had  decided  whether  to  retire  or  not,  a  young  lady 
entered  the  room. 

"  Miss  Fielding!"  he  exclaimed  in  utter  surprise,  as  the 


TEMPTATION.  59 


visitor  drew  aside  her  veil  and  showed  a  face  on  which  was  a 
deep  impression  of  sadness. 

"  I  have  done  you  a  great  wrong,"  said  Rose,  in  a  trem 
bling,  hesitating  voice,  entering  at  once  upon  her  mission; 
"  and  I  come  now,  in  the  hope  that  I  may  be  able,  in  some 
measure,  to  repair  it.35 

She  could  say  no  more.  Her  feelings,  wrought  up  to  a 
high  pitch  of  excitement,  here  gave  way.  Sinking  upon  a 
chair,  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  sobbed 
violently. 

The  unhappy  young  man  found  himself  in  a  strangely  em- 
barrassed position.  For  a  little  while,  he  was  so  confused 
that  he  was  unable  to  comprehend  the  meaning  of  what  was 
passing  ;  but  it  soon  became  clear,  and  that  even  before  the 
trembling  maiden  recovered  her  self-possession.  Something 
of  admiration  for  her  conduct  mingled  with  other  emotions  in 
his  mind. 

As  the  bewildering  whirl,  into  which  his  feelings  had  been 
thrown,  subsided,  good  resolutions  formed  themselves.  Sud- 
denly approaching  the  young  girl,  he  took  her  hand  and  said 
in  a  low  but  earnest  voice, 

"  Return  to  your  home,  Miss  Fielding.  Virtuous  self- 
devotion  like  yours  must  not — shall  not  be  exercised  in  vain. 
From  this  hour  I  stand  where  I  stood  before  we  met.  An 
angel  shall  not  tempt  me  again  from  my  integrity." 

"  Enough  !"  said  the  young  girl,  rising,  while  she  let  her 
veil  again  fall  over  her  face.  "  May  Hej^en  give  you  strength 
to  hold  fast  by  this  good  resolution  !  Pardon  what  I  have 
done,  and  think  of  it  only  as  an  act  prompted  by  an  over- 
powering sense  of  duty." 


60  TEMPTATION. 


Saying  this,  she  glided  from  the  young  man's  presence 
and  hurried  back  to  her  home,  her  heart  fluttering  like  the 
heart  of  a  frightened  bird. 

When  Mr.  Fielding  became  aware  that  Forrester  had  fallen 
in  consequence  of  having  tasted  wine,  presented  by  the  hand 
of  his  daughter,  he  felt  some  misgivings  in  regard  to  his 
peculiar  views  and  practice.  His  wine  was  very  pure,  and 
might  be  very  good ;  but  it  had  proved,  to  the  morbid 
appetite  of  the  son  of  his  old  friend,  a  maddening  poison. 
Still  more  startled  was  he,  when  he  learned  what  Rose  had 
done  ;  for  he  understood  human  nature  well  enough  to  know 
that  such  an  act  would  produce  a  mutual  interest.  And  he 
was  not  mistaken  in  this  anticipation.  In  a  very  little  while 
these  two  young  persons  were  thrown  together  again.  There 
was  a  slight  embarrassment  on  both  sides  ;  but  this  soon 
passed  off.  They  had  thought  of  one  another  too  much  for 
either  to  feel  indifference. 

After  this,  Forrester  ventured  to  repeat  his  visit  to  the 
house  of  Mr.  Fielding.  The  father  of  Rose  was  at  home,  and 
received  him  with  rather  cold  formality.  But,  as  he  had  been, 
to  a  certain  extent,  a  party  to  the  fall  of  the  young  man,  he 
could  not  treat  him  with  repulsion.  Of  one  thing,  however, 
he  was  very  careful,  and  that  was,  not  to  order  wine  to  be 
served,  although  this  was  in  the  face  of  a  previous  declaration 
that  he  would  not  refrain  from  doing  so  to  his  guests,  even 
though  one  addicted  to  intemperance  were  present.  He  saw 
the  consequences  nearer,  in  a  different  light,  and  as  likely  to 
effect  himself. 

As  Mr.  Fielding  had  feared  would  be  the  case,  so  it  proved. 
A  mutual  attachment  sprung  up  between  Forrester  and  his 


A    REFLECTION    AT    SEA.  61 

daughter,  and  when  the  young  man  asked  for  her  hand, 
though  he  wished  to  refuse,  yet  he  could  not  do  so. 

At  the  wedding,  no  entertainment  was  given  ;  only  a  few 
friends  were  present,  and  strange  to  say,  even  to  them  wine 
•was  not  served.  Mr.  Fielding  would  have  set  forth  poison  as 
quickly  as  wine.  And  why  ?  Had  he  changed  his  views  in 
regard  to  its  utility  1  Not  so  much  that,  as  he  feared  the 
production  of  evil  results  likely  to  effect  himself  and  family. 
His  principles  were  based  rather  upon  a  regard  for  himself 
than  dependent  on  abstract  appreciations  of  right  and 
justice — and  this  was  one  fact  that  he  had  yet  to  learn.  As 
it  was,  he  was  made  to  feel,  almost  in  his  own  person,  the 
evil  of  serving  wine  to  any  and  every  one,  without  regard  to 
acquired  or  hereditary  predispositions  to  over-indulgenc  3 ; 
and  in  the  future,  his  practice  was  as  different  from  what  it 
had  been  as  could  well  be  conceived. 


SEE  how  beneath  the  moonbeam's  smile 
Yon  little  billow  heaves  its  breast, 

And  foams  and  sparkles  for  awhile, 
And  murmuring  then  subsides  to  rest. 

Thus  man*  the  sport  of  bliss  and  care, 

Rises  on  time's  eventful  sea, 
And  having  swelled  a  moment  there, 

Thus  melts  into  eternity, 


62  DOMESTIC    SLAVERY    IN    THE    EAST. 


BY      MISS      PARDOE. 


WERE  1  a  man,  and  condemned  to  an  existence  of 
servitude,  I  would  unhesitatingly  choose  that  of  slavery  in  a 
Turkish  family  :  for  if  ever  the  "  bitter  draught'5  can  in- 
deed be  rendered  palatable  it  is  there.  The  slave  of  the 
Osmanli  is  the  child  of  his  adoption  ;  he  purchases  with  his 
gold  a  being  to  cherish,  to  protect  and  to  support ;  and  in 
almost  every  case  he  secures  to  himself  what  his  gold  could 
not  command — a  devoted  and  loving  heart,  ready  to  sacrifice 
its  every  hope  and  impulse  in  his  service.  Once  forget  that 
the  smiling  menial  who  hands  your  coffee,  or  pours  the  rose- 
water  on  your  hand  from  an  urn  of  silver,  has  been  pur- 
chased at  a  price,  and  you  must  look  with  admiration  on  the 
relative  positions  of  the  servant  and  his  lord — the  one  so 
eager  and  so  earnest  in  his  service — the  other  so  gentle  and 
so  unexacting  in  his  commands. 

No  assertion  of  mine  can,  however,  so  satisfactorily  prove 
the  fact  which  I  have  here  advanced  as  the  circumstance  that 
almost  all  the  youth  of  both  sexes  in  Circassia  insist  upon 
being  conveyed  by  their  parents  into  Constantinople,  where 
the  roajd  to  honor  and  advancement  is  open  to  every  one ; 
the  slaves  receive  no  wages  ;  the  price  of  their  services  has 
already  been  paid  to  their  relatives  ;  but  twice  in  the  year  at 


DOMESTIC    SLAVERY    IN    THE    EAST.  63 


Btated  periods,  the  master  and  mistress  of  the  family,  and 
indeed  every  one  of  their  superiors  under  the  same  roof,  arc 
bound  to  make  them  a  present,  termed  the  Bakshish,  the 
value  of  which  varies  according  to  the  will  of  the  donor ;  and 
they  are  as  well  fed  and  nearly  as  well  clothed  as  their 
owners. 

As  they  stand  in  the  apartment  with  their  hands  folded 
upon  their  breasts,  they  occasionally  mix  in  the  conversation 
unrebuked — while,  from  their  number  (every  individual  main- 
taining as  many  as  his  income  will  admit,)  they  are  never 
subjected  to  hard  labors ;  indeed,  I  have  been  sometimes 
tempted  to  think,  that  all  the  work  of  a  Turkish  house  must 
be  done  by  the  fairies  ;  for  although  I  have  been  the  inmate 
of  several  harems  at  all  hours,  I  never  saw  a  symptom  of  any 
ihing  like  domestic  toil. 

There  is  a  remarkable  feature  in  the  position  of  the  Turkish 
slaves  that  I  must  not  omit  to  mention.  Should  it  occur  that 
one  of  them,  from  whatever  cause  it  may  arise,  feels  himself 
uncomfortable  in  the  house  of  the  owner,  the  dissatisfied  party 
requests  his  master  to  dispose  of  him  ;  and  having  repeated 
his  appeal  three  several  times,  the  law  enforces  compliance 
with  its  spirit ;  nor  is  this  all — the  slave  can  not  only  insist 
on  changing  owners,  but  even  on  selecting  his  purchaser, 
although  he  may  by  such  means  entail  considerable  loss  on 
his  master.  But,  as  asservation  is  no  proof,  I  will  adduce  an 
example. 

The  wife  of  Achmet  Pasha  had  a  female  slave,  who,  being 

partial  to  a  young  man  of  the  neighborhood,  was  desirous  to 

become  his  property.     Such  being  the  case  she  informed  her 

1  mistress  that  she  wished  to  be  taken  to  the  market  and  di*- 


64  DOMESTIC    SLAVERY    IN    THE    EAST. 

posed  of,  which  was  accordingly  carried  into  effect ;  but  as 
she  was  young  and  pretty,  and  her  lover  in  confined  circum- 
stances, he  was  soon  outbidden  by  a  wealthier  man  ;  and  on 
her  return  to  the  harem  of  Achmet  Pasha,  her  mistress  told 
her  that  an  Asiatic  merchant  had  offered  twenty  thousand 
piasters  for  her,  and  that  she  would  be  removed  to  his  house 
in  a  few  days.  "  I  will  not  belong  to  him,'5  was  the  reply  : 
"  there  was  a  young  man  in  the  market  who  bade  twelve 
thousand  for  me  and  I  have  decided  to  follow  him.  My 
price  to  you  was  but  ten  thousand  piasters — and  thus  you  will 
gain  two  thousand  by  selling  me  to  him."  Her  declaration 
was  decisive  ;  she  became  the  property  of  her  lover,  and  her 
resolution  cost  her  mistress  eighty  pounds  sterling. 

The  most  perfect  cleanliness  is  the  leading  characteristic 
of  the  Eastern  houses — not  a  grain  of  dust,  not  a  footmark 
defaces  the  Indian  matting  that  covers  the  large  halls, 
whence  the  several  apartments  branch  off  in  every  direction  ; 
the  glass  from  which  you  drink  is  carefully  guarded  to  avoid 
the  possibility  of  contamination  ;  and  the  instant  that  you 
have  eaten,  a  slave  stands  before  you  with  water  and  a  nap 
kin  to  clean  your  hands.  To  the  constant  use  of  the  bath  I 
have  already  alluded ;  and  no  soil  is  ever  seen  on  the  dress 
of  a  Turkish  gentlewoman. 

I  am  quite  conscious  that  more  than  one  lady -reader  will 
lay  down  my  volume  without  regret,  when  she  discovers  how 
matter-of-fact  are  many  of  its  contents.  The  very  term 
"  oriental"  implies  to  European  ears  the  concentration  of 
romance,  and  I  was  leng  in  the  East  ere  I  could  divest  my- 
self of  the  same  feeling.  I  could  have  continued  the  illusion, 
for  oriental  habits  lend  themselves  greatly  to  the  deceit,  when 


DOMESTIC    SLAVERY    IN    THE    EAST.  36 

the  looker-on  is  satisfied  with  glancing  over  the  surface  of 
things  ;  but  with  a  conscientious  chronicler  this  does  not  suf- 
fice ;  and  consequently,  I  rather  sought  to  be  instructed  than 
to  be  amused,  and  preferred  the  veracious  to  the  entertaining. 

This  bowing  down  of  the  imagination  before  the  reason  is, 
however,  the  less  either  a  merit  on  the  one  hand,  or  a  sacri- 
fice on  the  other,  for  enough  of  the  wild  and  the  wonderful,  as 
well  as  the  bright  and  the  beautiful,  still  remains  to  make  the 
East  a  scene  of  enchantment.  A  sky,  whose  blue  brilliancy 
floods  with  light  alike  the  shores  of  Asia  and  of  Europe — 
whose  sunshine  falls  warm  and  golden  on  dome  and  minarets 
and  palaces — a  sea,  whose  waves  glitter  in  silver,  forming  the 
bright  bond  by  which  two  quarters  of  the  globe  are  linked 
together — an  empire  peopled  by  the  gathering  of  many 
nations  :  the  stately  Turk — the  serious  Armenian — the  wily 
Jew — the  keen-eyed  Greek — the  graceful  Circassian — the 
desert-loving  Tartar — the  roving  Arab — the  mountain-born 
son  of  Caucasus — the  voluptuous  Persian — the  Indian  der- 
vish, and  the  thoughtful  Frank — each  clad  in  the  garb  and 
speaking  the  language  of  his  people,  suffice  to  weave  a  web 
of  tints  too  various  and  too  brilliant  to  be  wrought  into  the 
dull  and  common-place  pattern  of  every-day  existence. 

I  would  not  remove  one  fold  of  the  graceful  drapery  which 
veils  the  time-hallowed  statue  of  Eastern  power  and  beauty — 
but  I  cannot  refrain  from  plucking  away  the  trash  and  tinsel 
that  ignorance  and  bad  taste  have  hung  about  it  and  which 
belong  as  little  to  the  master-piece  they  desecrate  as  the 
votive  offerings  of  bigotry  and  superstition  form  a  part  of  one 
of  Raphael's  divine  Madonnas  because  they  are  appended  to 

her  shrine. 

6* 


LOVE7S    PERFIDY. 


BY    MRS.    M.    E.    HEWITT. 

AY  !  thou  art  there  beside  her, 

Her  fingers  clasped  in  thine  j 
Thou  'rt  gazing  in  her  love-lit  eyes 

As  once  thou  didst  in  mine. 
Ah  me  !  that  ever  glances, 

So  wavering  as  thine, 
Should  kindle  in  a  maiden's  heart 

The  fire  of  love  divine. 

I  know  that  thou  art  murmuring 

To  her  enraptured  ear 
Those  thrilling  words  of  tenderness 

I  never  more  shall  hear. 
Ah  me  !  that  words  so  faithless, 

That  vows  so  false  as  thine, 
Should  kindle  in  another  heart 

A  love  so  true  as  mine. 

And  she  will  soon  awaken 

To  know  her  love  betrayed — 
Like  me,  alas  !  forsaken, 

Her  truth  like  mine  repaid 
Ah  me !  that  ever  falsehood 

So  treacherous  as  thine 
Should  fall  to  blight  another  heart 

As  it  hath  blighted  mine. 


SONG   OF   THE   WAYFARING.  67 


BY     C.     W.     EVEREST. 

HERE  let  us  rest :  my  weary  friend, 

Beside  this  rippling  stream ; 
For  long  has  been  our  tiresome  march 

Beneath  the  sultry  beam — 
Let's  sit  beneath  this  spreading  shade, 

Which  woos  our  steps  to  stay, 
And  we  will  drink  the  cooling  wave 

To  loved  ones  far  away  ! 

Fill  high  the  cup  !  though  we  full  oft 

Have  quaffed  the  ruddy  wine, 
This  purling  stream  will  sweeter  seem 

Than  juices  of  the  vine — 
Then  let  us  not  for  goblets  sigh, 

Their  gleams  too  oft  betray ; 
But  we  will  drink  the  crystal  wave 

To  loved  ones  far  away ! 

»T  is  sweet  to  muse  on  distant  friends, 

To  memory  fondly  deai, 
And  feel  we  are  not  all  forgot, 

While  resting  lonely  here  ; 
0,  sweet  the  thought  that  they  may  think 

Full  oft  of  those  who  stray, 
And  now,  perchance,  do  kindly  drink 

To  loved  ones  far  awaj  ! 


MARRIED    PARTNERS. 


But  look,  my  ftiend,  to  confer  *un, 

*T  is  hastening  down  the  west, 
And  we  must  speed  our  weary  course 

Till  night-fall  bids  us  rest", 
But  draw  once  more  from  out  the  stream, 

And  yet  a  moment  stay, 
And  we  will  drink  a  parting  cup 

To  loved  ones  far  away ! 


BY     DR.     DOUNE. 

11  And  they  twain  shall  be  one  flesh." 

IF  we  are  two,  we  are  two  so 
As  stiff  twin  compasses  are  two, 

Thou  the  fixt  foot,  which  makes  no  show 
To  stir,  but  doth  if  t'other  do : 

And  though  it  in  the  centre  sit, 
Yet,  if  the  other  far  doth  roam, 

It  leans  and  hearkens  after  it, 

And  grows  erect  as  that  comes  home. 

So  shalt  thou  be  to  me,  who  must 
Like  th'  other  foot,  eccentric  run  : 

Thy  firmness  makes  my  circle  just, 
And  makes  me  end  where  I  begun. 


THE    WEALTHY    MARRIAGE.  69 


BY     MRS.     S.     A.     WENTZ. 


Two  fair  young  girls  sat  alone  at  the  window  of  a  small 
but  well-furnished  parlor.  It  was  a  quiet  afternoon  in  autumn. 
The  elder  of  the  girls  was  beautiful  exceedingly  ;  she  sat  in 
silence,  a  grave  expression  on  her  fine  features.  A  cast  of 
thought  had  stolen  into  the  sunny  eyes  of  the  younger ;  ever 
and  anon  she  gazed  with  a  tender,  anxious  look  upon  her  sis- 
ter, as  if  she  had  much  to  say,  yet  waited  for  a  more  com- 
municative mood  in  her  companion.  At  length  she  raised  her 
head  resolutely  and  said,  "  I  thought  the  other  evening  I 
heard  George  Wetmore  ask  you  to  go  to  the  Opera  with 
him  to-night — are  you  going  ?  " 

"  No !"  replied  the  other,  blushing  deeply;  "  I  promised, 
very  thoughtlessly,  at  first  to  go  ;  but  I  recalled  it." 

"  And  why  did  you  recall  it,  Agnes  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  Why  should  I  go  ?  If  I  prefer  to  stay  at  home, 
I  have  a  right  to  do  so,  have  I  not  ?  I  do  n't  think  it  best  to 
accept  every  invitation  I  get.  That  is  your  plan,  though,  I 
believe,  Bessie  dear,  is  n't  it  ?  "  and  she  pulled  Bessie's  soft 
ringlet  with  a  mischievous  laugh. 

Bessie  colored,  but  the  next  moment  she  erected  her  saucy 
little  head,  exclaiming,  "  Well,  what  if  I  do  ?  I  want  to  go . 


70  THE    WEALTHY    MARRIAGE. 

— and  I  only  go  out  with  one  person,  and  that  person  is  to  be 
my  liege  lord  some  of  these  days !" 

"  Are  you  engaged  to  him,  Bessie?"  demanded  Agnes. 

"  Yes  !  no.  I  do  n't  know  !  He  asked  me  a  very  important 
question  last  night," — and  Bessie  cast  down  her  modest  eyes 
without  proceeding. 

"  And  how  did  you  answer  him  V9 

"  I  said  Tio,  of  course  ;  you  know  I  never  had  an  offer  be- 
fore, and  I  did  n't  like  the  idea  of  saying  yes  immediately  to 
the  first  one  that  snapt  me  up  \"  Bessie  raised  her  roguish 
eyes  to  her  sister's  face  and  then  sent  forth  a  merry  peal  of 
laughter,  in  which  her  sister  joined  her. 

"  But,  Bessie,"  said  Agnes,  "  if  you  said  TIO,  how  are  you 
so  certain  that  Ralph  is  to  be  your  liege  lord  V9 

"  How  am  I  certain  ?  Would  n't  he  go  through  fire  and 
water  for  me  ?  Would  n't  he  ask  me  again  ?  Would  n't  he 
pine  away  and  die,  if  I  should  not  have  him  ?  And  last,  but 
not  least,  did  n't  he  know  I  would  say  yes  at  a  proper  time  V9 

Well,  Bessie,  I  suppose  you  have  considered  the  matter  in 
every  point  of  view ;  you  are  very  young  yet,  only  seven- 
teen. You  do  not  realize  how  hard  it  will  be  for  you  to  be  a 
poor  man's  wife — and  yet  we  have  both  had  some  experience 
of  poverty.  The  simple  style  we  live  in  now,  is  beyond  our 
means,  our  portion  will  be  a  mere  trifle  ;  if  both  of  us 
marry  poor,  mother's  life  will  not  be  a  very  pleasant  one ; 
she  of  course  will  live  with  us,  for  we  would  not  consent  to  a 
separation !" 

"Ah!  no,  no  indeed,"  answered  Bessie;  c  mother  is  too 
noble  to  consider  her  owTn  happiness  when  ours  is  to  be  secur- 
ed, yet  to  dwell  with  ns  in  comparative  poverty  would  be  a 


THE    WEALTHY    MARRIAGE.  71 

happier  lot  than  to  see  us  '  perked  up  in  a  glittering  grief, 
wearing  a  golden  sorrow.3  I  asked  her  yesterday  if  she  was 
willing  I  should  marry  Ralph  Anson ;  she  looked  pained  a 
moment  and  tears  came  into  her  eyes,  hut  she  said,  c  I 
have  no  doubt,  Bessie,  that,  at  present,  you  love  him  hefore 
everything  on  earth  and  I  fear  before  your  hopes  of  Heaven 
too,  though  you  wish  not  to  be  an  idolater.  The  passionate 
love  of  youth  is  a  frail  thing,  it  flourishes  in  the  sunshine,  but 
it  often  withers  when  it  encounters  the  rough  and  homely  ex- 
periences of  life.  Have  you  something  higher  than  such  a 
love  to  sustain  you  1  Have  you  energy,  patience,  unfailing 
kindness  ? — will  duty,  aside  from  love,  lead  you  to  be  content 
by  your  husband's  side,  while  you  care  only  to  promote  his 
happiness,  to  share  his  poverty,  heedless  of  ambition  in  the 
world's  opinion  ?  Do  you  know  the  importance  of  the  step 
you  wish  to  take  1  Remember  it  is  for  life !  Are  you  ready 
to  live  more  humbly  than  you  do  now?  Are  you  ready  to 
leave  your  blooming  girlhood,  perhaps  to  meet  with  pecuniary 
difficulties,  sickness  and  sorrow  ?  Are  you  ready  to  have 
fashionable  acquaintances  cut  you  in  the  street  and  to  find 
you  are  cared  for  much  less  by  your  circle  of  friends  than 
you  supposed  ? ' 

"  '  Ah  !  mother,'  I  interrupted,  '  you  draw  such  a  gloomy 
picture,  you  say  not  a  word  of  Ralph's  cheerful,  noble  spirit, 
on  which  I  may  repose  every  care ;  you  forget  the  happy 
evenings  we  will  spend  together  reading  the  works  we  love 
so  much  ;  you  forget  that  it  will  be  my  highest  happiness  to 
smooth  from  his  brow  the  cloud  of  care  ;  you  forget,  that  if 
sickness  comes  to  him,  how  grateful  I  shall  be  that  it  is  my 
privilege  to  watch  over  him,  to  cheer  his  spirit,  and,  if  need 


72  THE    WEALTHY    MARRIAGE. 

be,  to  work  for  his  support.  True  love  has  made  me  meek- 
hearted,  mother.  I  care  not  for  any  praise  from  the  world. 
I  care  only  to  hear  Ralph  say  his  Bessie  is  all  the  world  to 
him.  I  seek  only  to  be  worthy  of  him ; — then  am  I  not 
ready  to  spend  my  life  with  him,  dear  mother  ? ' 

" c  Yes,  darling,5  she  answered,  c  you  have  the  "  magic 
power"  within  you  ;  your  loving  heart  will  make  the  wilder- 
ness to  blossom  as  the  rose.  I  had  faith  in  you,  my  -child, 
yet  1  feared  you  were  too  thoughtless.  Ralph  is  in  every  way 
worthy  of  you.  For  both  your  sakes  I  wish  he  was  not  so 
poor ;  yet  poverty  is  not  the  worst  of  evils  ;  you  both  possess 
good  health,  and  riches  of  the  mind  and  heart.  But,  Bessie, 
you  must  not  marry  under  two  or  three  years  ;  Ralph  can- 
not support  a  wife  comfortably  yet !' 

"  '  Oh  !  no,  mother,  not  in  a  year  at  least.' 5 

"  I  supposed  mother  would  feel  some  opposition  to  your 
marriage  with  Anson!"  said  Agnes  thoughtfully,  after  her 
sister  had  finished  her  narration. 

"  And  so  she  would,55  replied  Bessie,  "  if  she  did  not  know- 
that  the  whole  happiness  of  her  child  depended  upon  him.55 

"  I  think  imagination  has  a  great  deal  to  do  with  this  hot 
love !  Do  n5t  you  suppose  you  could  love  some  one  else  as 
well  as  you  do  Anson,  Bessie  ?55 

"  Never !  Imagination  may  give  a  brighter  coloring  to  love, 
but  it  is  not  love  itself.  You  would  like  to  think  that 
imagination  has  greater  sway  over  your  own  feelings  than 
love,  but,  Agnes,  you  deceive  yourself.  Do  not  be  so  proud, 
I  beseech  of  you,  or  you  will  wreck  your  own  happiness  !55 

"  Am  I  proud  ?55  asked  Agnes,  the  warm  color  rushing  to 
her  cheek  ;  "  I  may  be  a  little  proud,  but  not  enough  so  to 


THE    WEALTHY    MARRIAGE.  73 

injure  my  own  happiness  very  materially.  You  are  governed 
by  impulse,  my  sister,  and  I  control  myself  by  my  judgment." 
"  A  fatal  judgment,  that  would  lead  you  to  think  you  can  be 
happy  without  strong  affection. "  You  are  prouder  than  I, 
sister,  and  perhaps  you  have  a  right  to  be,  for  you  are  so 
beautiful  and  so  splendidly  endowed  with  intellect,  but  you 
have  the  warmest  of  hearts,  and 

4  No  dream  of  fame  can  fill 
The  bosom  which  must  vainly  pine 
For  sweet  affection's  thrill.1 

Do  you  know,  Agnes,  a  year  or  two  ago,  when  I  used  to 
see  you  surrounded  by  the  noble  and  gifted, c  the  kings  of  the 
earth,'  I  often  retired  to  my  sleepless  couch  and  wept  that  I, 
too,  could  not  claim  the  homage  and  admiration  of  genius,  so 
fascinating  and  grateful  to  the  heart.  But  ah  !  how  insignifi- 
cant it  now  seems,  when  compared  with  the  sweeter  incense 
of  a  pure,  abiding  love.  Why  will  not  you,  like  me,  consent 
to  take  an  humble  path  in  life,  with  one  who  idolizes  you,  and 
whom  you  love  in  return  ?" 

"  Whom  I  love  in  return,"  repeated  Agnes,  her  cheek 
growing  gradually  pale.  "  No  !  Bessie,  stop  ;  I  do  not  love 
him,  and  do  not  make  me  fancy  so.  I  will  not  have  him ; 
he  shall  not  win  me !" — she  spoke  passionately,  sadly,  yet 
with  determination.  She  continued  more  calmly,  "  George 
and  I  are  not  suited  to  each  other  ;  tiicre  is  a  certain  antag- 
onism in  our  natures.  You  know  my  faults,  Bessie ;  so  I 
will  speak  plainly.  I  value  the  opinion  of  the  world  ;  he  is 
utterly  indifferent  to  it.  If  an  action  is  approved  by  his  own 
conscience,  the  opposition  of  the  whole  universe  is  of  no 


74  THE    WEALTHY    MAKRIAG.fi. 

avail — that  is  right,  it  is  true,  but  often  where  it  is  not 
necessary  for  him  to  oppose  others,  he  does  it.  He  is  so  firm, 
so  decided,  so  strong-spirited  ;  he  would  not  make  allowance 
for  my  weaknesses.  I  must  have  no  failings  ;  I  must  be  per- 
fect, or  see  his  proud  lip  curve  in  disdain.  You  know,  with 
him  that  poverty  would  be  my  portion.  How  could  /  per- 
form menial  offices  without  bitterness  ?  and  how  could  I  pre- 
vent always  that  bitterness  from  escaping  me  ?  Then  how 
could  I  bear  his  contempt  ?  He  does  not  care  for  wealth  ; 
he  never  would  trouble  himself  in  the  least  to  acquire  it ;  so 
my  whole  life  would  be  spent  in  poverty,  hateful  poverty  ! 
that  tears  from  our  grasp  not  only  temporal  comforts,  but  in- 
tellectual enjoyments.  It  not  only  cuts  us  off  from  beholding 
the  glories  of  this  beautiful  earth,  but  with  an  iron  hand  it 
thrusts  us  back  among  the  low,  the  common-place  ;  it  robs  us 
of  our  precious  birthright,  a  place  among  the  gifted.  No ! 
Bessie,  never  try  to  persuade  me  to  be  the  wife  of  George 
Wetmore  !" 

"  You  speak  extravagantly,  Agnes  ;  you  look  only  on  one 
side," — said  the  meek-hearted  Bessie,  gazing  with  a  flushed 
cheek  and  tears  in  her  anxious  eyes  upon  her  sister. 
"  George's  tastes  are  all  like  yours ;  he  never  would  associate 
among  the  low,  more  than  yourself ;  he  loves  you  as  he  does 
his  own  soul ;  he  would  make  many  sacrifices  for  you  ;  but 
he  is  too  noble  to  flatter  you.  If  you  cast  him  off,  Agnes, 
you  will  bitterly  repent  it,  for  you  love  him,  and  you  are  not 
heartless  enough  to  forget.  Oh  !  crush  that  evil  pride  before 
it  poisons  your  whole  existence." 

"  But  I  do  not  love  George  Wetmore  with  devotion,"  said 
Agnes  almost  sharply — "  I  can  love  another  as  well  as  him- 


THE    WEALTHY    MARRIAG^.  75 


self — I  know  my  own  heart,  and  I  have  never  lost  the  control 
of  it." 

Bessie  sighed  and  was  silent.  Agnes  kissed  her  soft 
cheek  and  whispered,  "  I  appreciate  your  anxiety  for  me, 
sister,  but  my  happiness  cannot  be  promoted  in  the  way  you 
suppose.  So  brighten  up,  love,  for  my  lot  will  be  a  bright 
and  happy  one,  spite  of  all  your  fears — my  heart  is  not  one 
of  the  soft  kind,  that  would  break  for  love.  But  look  out  of 
the  window  ;  there  is  Ralph  !" 

"  Ah  !  yes,  mon  ange  /"  cried  Bessie  joyfully,  the  sun- 
light coming  back  into  her  blue  eyes. 

^  Mon  ange  /"  repeated  Agnes  smiling,  though  she 
curved  her  lip  with  pretended  disdain,  "  you  had  better 
open  the  front  door  for  him  and  spring  into  his  arms — he 
looks  up  here  so  smiling  and  confident,  I  dare  say  he  expects 
you  to  do  so  !" 

"  Not  I,  indeed  !"  answered  Bessie,  assuming  a  prudish, 
demure  deportment  "  You  know  he  is  a  rejected  lover  and 
I  must  act  accordingly.  Bless  me  !  he  has  rung  the  bell 
twice,  and  that  slow,  poking  Bridget  hasn't  come  up  the 
kitchen  stairs  yet." 

"  Well,  I  will  make  my  escape  now,"  said  Agnes,  "  and 
leave  you  and  Ralph  to  make  yourselves  ridiculous  alone." 
She  went,  and  in  a  moment  Ralph  came  in,  his  fine  face 
glowing  with  mischief,  love  and  happiness.  "  My  Bessie, 
how  are  you  !"  he  exclaimed,  glancing  -apon  the  charming 
girl  with  a  heart-warm  smile  of  delight. 

"  I  am  very  well,  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Anson !"  she  replied 
bowing  folitely,  without  rising  however,  and  extending  her 
little  hand.  Ralph  looked  into  her  demure  face,  shook 


76  THE    WEALTHY    MARRIAGE. 

hands  very  gravely,  then  both  bur&t  into  a  hearty  fit  of 
laughter ;  before  an  hour  had  gone,  Bessie  had  found  out  that 
it  was  the  proper  time  to  say  yes. 

Agnes  had  sought  her  chamber  ;  she  sat  down  by  the  win- 
dow ;  her  cheek  glowed  and  her  proud,  dark  eyes  flashed.  "I 
love  him  indeed !"  she  said,  and  she  smiled  scornfully  as  if  she 
despised  herself  for  supposing  such  a  thing.  But  memory 
turned  over  the  leaves  of  her  young  existence.  Her  magic 
hand  stole  from  the  past  its  brightest  gem,  its  sweet  oasis. 
Ah !  still  a  glory  beamed  around  it,  which  pride  itself  could 
not  hide ;  and  the  young  girl  bent  her  head  and  wept  over  her 
infatuation  as  she  thought  it.  How  strangely  bold  we  are  in 
our  hopes  of  happiness,  while  the  sunny  sky  of  youth  is  over 
us,  before  it  has  been  coldly  darkened  by  some  heavy  grief ! 
How  insensate  is  the  ambitious  pride  that  sets  its  dainty  foot 
upon  the  richest,  purest  flowers  that  bloom  in  the  garden  of 
life !  The  experienced  and  noble-hearted  ones  tell  us  we  are 
wrong  ;  that  the  path  of  life  may  be  a  path  of  thorns  to  us — 
how  incredulously  we  listen  !  And  then  the  silver  shout  of 
confidence  rings  forth  from  the  youthful  spirit.  Ah  !  no — it 
cannot  be  ;  we  are  too  strong  for  despair.  Thus  thought 
Agnes ;  she  had  not  met  with  those  trials  that  teach  us  to 
value  true  happiness  before  the  apparent.  She  stood  upon, 
the  threshold  of  existence  and  clasped  her  girlish  treasures 
of  bright  imaginings  to  her  bosom  as  she  looked  back — they 
threw  a  glow  upon  her  future  ;  they  told  her  the  world  was 
yet  all  brightness — and  yet  how  passing  fair  was  that  beauti- 
ful oasis  still  to  her  eye  ;  in  it  she  had  realized  her  happy 
dreams  :  should  she  blot  it  out  from  her  future  and  trust  to 
visions  as  happy,  yet  more  proud  ]  Would  she  indeed  ever 


THE    WEALTHY    MARRIAGE.  77 

be  so  happy  again,  if  Wetmore  were  lost  to  her?  She 
trembled,  she  doubted  ;  but  her  evil  pride  came  to  her  sup- 
port.  The  tea-bell  rang,  and  she  descended  with  a  smooth 
brow,  and  with  cheerful  words  took  part  in  the  conversation 
at  the  evening  meal.  A  few  weeks  later  she  wrote  thus  in 
her  journal  : 


" 


June  12^A.  —  Would  to  heaven  I  could  unwind  my 
tangled  feelings  and  know  how  to  act  and  feel  !  Am  I  de- 
ceiving myself?  Am  I  doing  wrong  to  persist  in  repelling 
George  '?  Do  I  really  love  him  as  Bessie  says  I  do  ?  But 
no  !  Why  do  I  let  a  thought  of  having  him  cross  my  mind  ? 
Ah  !  I  am  indeed  almost  proud  enough  to  break  my  heart  ! 
But  I  cannot  have  him  ;  I  cannot  bear  all  the  privations  that 
would  fall  to  the  lot  of  his  wife.  Nonsense  !  I  do  not  care 
very  much  for  him.  His  own  soul  pours  briefly  over  mine  its 
burning  light  and  I  forget  ;  his  joy  becomes  mine,  it  is  but 
the  momentary  reflection  of  his  spirit.  I  will  not  see  him 
often.  Would  that  I  was  more  like  Bessie  !  I  can  become 
like  her,  if  I  will  ;  but  the  spirits  of  darkness  are  around  me, 
and  I  will  not  will  it.  How  truly  do  I  realize  that  I  am 
possessed  of  two  natures  —  sometimes  I  am  cruel,  selfish  and 
,  worldly,  and  again  I  yearn  after  that  goodness  which  cometh 
from  above.  When  I  am  with  George,  he  always  leads  me 
into  the  regions  of  pure  thought  ;  then  it  seems  as  if  it  would 
be  so  noble  to  lay  my  best  gifts  at  the  feet  of  my  fellow 
creatures  ;  to  live  only  that  I  might  make  others  happy,  or 
pluck  the  sharp  arrow  of  pain  from  some  bleeding  heart.  He 
seems  so  solicitous  that  I  should  become  pure  and  good. 
Ah  !  when  the  white  wing  of  my  guardian  angel  is  over  me, 


78  THE    WEALTHY    MARRIAGE. 

I  could  sink  at  his  feet  and  promise  that  mj  life,  my  pride, 
my  soul,  my  all  should  be  given  up  to  him.  I  tremble  at  the 
strong  intensity  of  passion  that  floods  my  heart.  I  have  in- 
deed deceived  myself.  Last  night  at  church,  I  noticed  that 
expression  on  his  countenance  which  Bessie  had  spoken  of  as 
so  splendid  and  spiritual.  I  turned  my  head  away,  and  be- 
fore I  was  aware  tears  were  running  down  my  face  :  and  why 
did  I  weep  ?  It  was  for  him,  for  myself;  because  I,  wretch- 
ed one,  was  to  darken  his  noble  spirit,  and  because  I  could 
not  surrender  my  ambition  to  a  better  affection.  Bessie  calls 
me  so  firm,  so  unyielding,  so  decided,  and  yet  if  she  could 
look  into  my  heart,  she  would  see  that  I  am  in  a  constant 
agony  of  indecision.  She  pleads  so  nobly,  so  artlessly  for 
George.  I  listen  coldly,  while  a  tempest  rages  in  my  heart. 
I  yield  in  spirit  to  her  eloquence  a  thousand  times;  I  see 
with  her  clear,  meek  eyes ;  I  resolve  to  meet  George-,  and 
cast  aside  this  chain  of  coldness  beneath  which  I  fret ;  but 
then  the  demon  of  pride  starts  up — it  cannot  be  !  Never 
before  could  I  acknowledge  that  it  was  pride  alone  that  gov- 
erned me.  And  yet  I  have  no  dream  of  marrying  without 
love.  It  was  but  yesterday  that  I  received  an  offer,  which 
would  have  gratified  my  pride  to  the  utmost.  I  have  no 
doubt  that  Lincoln  loves  me  sincerely,  but  his  love  seems 
cold  and  measured  when  I  think  of  the  warm  heart  of  George. 
He  laid  his  splendid  fortune  at  my  feet ;  wealth  greater  than 
my  ambitious  dreams  had  sought,  but  it  did  not  raise  one 
tempting  thought.  I  turned  coldly  away,  for  I  trembled  to 
take  a  step  that  would  break  the  golden  links  that  bound  my 
heart  to  George.  And  yet  I  sighed,  for  if  I  but  loved  Lincoln 
I  could  be  so  proud  of  him  ;  I  could  glory  in  his  powerful 


THE    WEALTHY    MARRIAGE.  79 

mind  ;  I  could  be  so  supremely  happy.  This  world  would  be 
too  enchanting  a  paradise  if  I  could  tear  this  passionate 
idolatry  from  one  object  and  give  it  to  another.  I  have 
heard  many  persons  say  that  first  love  is  fleeting  as  the 
morning  cloud.  It  enwraps  the  early  sky  with  hues  golden 
and  dazzling  ;  but  they  fade  away,  and  many  another  sun  of 
affection  rises  and  chases  into  forgetfulness  the  first.  So  it 
may  be  with  me.  I  think  I  do  not  decehe  myself  when  1 
imagine  that  I  can  crush  out  this  love  from  my  nature.  But 
shall  I  do  it  ?  I  knew  not  how  strong  it  was  until  I  sought 
to  cast  it  from  me.  I  cannot  decide  yet.'5 

Poor  Agnes  !  she  little  knew  the  sorrow  she  was  laying  up 
for  herself  by  those  hard  struggles  to  uproot  a  noble  affec- 
tion ;  she  might  conquer  her  own  will,  perhaps,  but  not  the 
love  enshrined  within  her  heart  of  hearts, 

"  Quiet,  yet  flowing  deep,  as  the  Rhine  among  rivers." 

Often  the  sigh  of  envy  escaped  her  as  she  witnessed  the 
pure,  frank  happiness  of  Bessie  and  her  lover.  And  yet  she 
could  not  believe  that  she  was  casting  away  a  jewel  that  she 
might  never  find  again  ;  others  might  love  Aer,  but  would  the 
vision  rise  again  in  her  own  breast  1  She  firmly  believed  it 
would.  Mr.  Lincoln  slowly  gained  an  influence  over  her  ;  he 
ministered  to  her  pride  ;  he  was  ten  years  her  senior,  and 
having  had  some  experience  in  "la  belle  passion,"  he  did  not 
at  all  doubt  his  power  of  winning  in  the  end  the  beautiful  and 
gifted  creature  who  had  dared  to  refuse  him.  The  calm, 
though  respectful  rejection  of  the  haughty  girl,  only  made 
him  admire  her  the  more ;  he  then  felt  that  she  was  above 
all  sor  lid  motives.  He  had  won  many  hearts  in  his  day,  and 


80  THE    WEALTHY    MARRIAGE. 

had  resolved  that  it  was  now  time  to  get  a  wife  in  earnest. 
The  genius  and  beauty  of  Agnes  had  fully  captivated  hia 
imagination,  and  his  heart  was  as  much  enlisted  as  a  selfish 
man's  is  generally.  He  could  look  with  pride  upon  her 
queenly  grace  as  she  presided  at  his  elegant  table,  and  smile 
with  secret  complacency  as  she  hung  upon  his  arm  in  the 
morning  promenade,  the  'bright,  particular  star,'  to  whom 
every  eye  turned.  His  literary  friends  would  envy  him  the 
possession  of  one  so  noKly  endowed  with  talent.  Such  were 
the  paltry  motives  that  actuated  a  man  whose  lofty  intellect 
might  have  made  him  a  benefactor  to  his  race.  So  far  dis- 
tant may  intellect  be  from  true  nobleness  of  soul.  But  the 
bride  he  sought  did  not  judge  him  thus,  for  the  manly  music 
of  his  voice  gave  utterance  only  to  sentiments  delicate  and 
pure ;  his  clear,  steady  eye  only  seemed  to  rest  upon  her 
with  the  kindness  of  watchful  love.  And  yet,  did  it  awaken 
her  own  heart  in  return  or  blot  out  the  memory  of  one  who 
was  the  high-priest  at  the  altar  of  her  soul  ?  We  will  look 
once  more  into  the  record  of  her  secret  thoughts. 

"  January  20th. — If  I  ever  marry  it  shall  be  for  love — a 
love  that  can  cast  aside  everything  for  its  object.  Sometimes 
I  think  I  love  George  and  again  I  do  not.  I  am  sure  it  is 
not  a  deep  affection,  or  I  would  not  feel  that  I  made  any 
sacrifices.  Sometimes  I  feel  something  approaching  to  indig- 
nation that  he  will  still  persevere  in  endeavoring  to  win  my 
love,  when  I  struggle  so  hard  against  it ;  and  the  next 
moment  a  flood  of  intense  affection  rushes  powerfully  over 
me ! — when  his  strong  spirit  yields  to  deep  tenderness  and 
there  is  a  feeling  and  patho*  in  his  voice  for  me  alone,  I  see 


THE    WEALTHY    MARRIAGE.  81 

that  there  is  a  trial  in  store  for  me.  My  feelings  of  tender- 
ness are  enlisted,  but  my  judgment  never.  I  experience  too 
often  a  certain  opposition  of  feeling.  I  think  he  might  be  too 
severe  and  stern  upon  me ;  and  yet  I  know  if  I  possessed 
the  pure  purpose  that  always  governs  Bessie,  I  should  rejoice 
in  the  healthful  serenity  that  will  not  flatter  the  object  best 
loved  on  earth.  Again  he  seems  too  indulgent  to  my  way- 
wardness. Alas  !  what  a  strange,  deceitful  thing  the  heart 
is — it  is  so  difficult  to  learn  our  motives.  The  other  evening 
I  met  George  at  a  party  ;  he  was  asked  to  sing,  and  chose  the 
touching  lay  we  first  learned  together ;  he  glanced  towards  me 
before  he  began.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  never  saw  the 
innermost  soul  embodied  in  music  before — I  thrilled  strangely 
as  I  heard  his  last,  exquisite  tones ;  it  seemed  as  if  his  whole 
heart's  history  was  poured  forth  on  each  word — he  was  a 
changed  being  to  me  then,  he  was  an  angel-poet.  I  was  as 
unconscious  of  the  presence  of  any  one  as  if  I  had  been 
totally  alone.  I  seemed  to  swim  in  the  emotion  that  rushed 
through  my  heart.  How  I  could  have  wept  if  other  eyes  had 
not  been  upon  me.  That  heart-music  has  rung  in  my  ears  ever 
since,  and  I  have  trembled  lest  in  a  moment  of  impulsive  feel- 
ing I  should  yield.  When  I  came  home,  I  felt  as  if  could  sit 
and  brood  over  it  all  night — for  a  short  time,  as  I  sank  upon 
a  chair  and  clasped  my  hands,  I  felt  as  if  there  was  a  will 
and  a  power  stronger  than  my  own  drawing  me  to  him.  I 
felt  that  I  could  sacrifice  all.  Until  yesterday  I  feared  and 
trembled,  but  last  night  he  revealed  himself  in  a  sterner 
character — he  loves  me,  but  he  would  net  indulge  me — I 
must  shrink  from  no  duties.  He  spoke  of  woman,  of  his 
e? — she  must  be  a  rational  being,  not  a  toy  to  be  petted  in 


82  THE    WEALTHY    MARRIAGE. 


her  waywardness  and  worshipped  for  her  pretty  follies.  I 
felt  horribly  provoked — ill-natured.  I  did  not  reply,  but 
thought  if  I  was  married  to  him,  I  should  be  quarrelling  half 
the  time !  And  why  ?  He  of  course  wanted  me  to  be  his 
wife,  and  he  gave  utterance  to  a  suspicion  that  I  might  have 
follies.  To  sift  the  matter  to  the  bottom,  I  must  be  thought 
perfection — I  must  be  on  Pisgah's  top  in  his  eye.  He  would 
have  been  very  sorry  to  have  known  the  effect  his  lecture 
on  woman's  domestic  duties  produced.  4  Would  n't  have  him 
for  the  world,'  thought  I,  as  I  parted  from  him.  *  If  his 
dinner  was  not  well-cooked  at  any  time,  I  should  have  the 
benefit  of  a  lecture,  and  that  I  wrill  in  good  time  spare  my- 
self.' I  know  not  what  fate  has  in  store  for  me.  Lincoln 
has  not  taken  my  refusal  very  much  to  heart,  for  he  seeks  me 
as  much  as  ever.  Perhaps  he  thinks  I  will  yet  marry  him. 
But  I  do  not  feel  now  as  if  I  should  ever  love  him  as  I  ought." 

"  December  ~Lst. — Winter  has  commenced,  and  there  is 
also  a  winter  in  my  soul — ten  weary  months  have  rolled  into 
eternity  since  I  last  wrote  on  these  pages.  I  have  dis- 
couraged George  ;  he  left  for  the  South  three  months  ago.  I 
learned  how  terribly  I  had  deceived  myself  in  thinking  I 
could  ever  be  happy  with  another,  after  he  had  gone,  without 
one  word  of  farewell.  Ah  !  pride,  pride,  how  lofty  the 
aspect  thou  wearest,  and  yet  thy  serpent  fangs  bite  into  the 
very  heart.  If  I  could  but  see  him  !  This  silence  of  Hope 
is  desolate.  And  yet  why  should  I  see  him  ?  Lincoln  con- 
siders me  almost  engaged  to  him.  I  know  not  what  will 
become  of  me.  I  know  not  where  to  turn  !  If  George  would 
but  come  to  m^  once  more,  how  meekly,  how  joyfully  would  1 


THE    WEALTHY    MARRIAGE.  88 


sink  at  bis  feet,  and  implore  his  forgiveness  for  my  cold 
trifling  with  his  best  feelings.  But  it  is  too  late ;  he  thinks  I 
have  been  won  with  Lincoln's  gold  ;  his  respect  is  lost,  and  I 
cannot  stoop  to  win  it  again.  My  angel  sister ! — your  sad 
prophecy  has  come  true.  I  have  indeed  wrecked  my  own 
happiness.  But,  wailing  heart,  be  silent-!  Now  pride  come 
forth,  and  sit  like  a  queen  upon  the  ruins  of  a  soul  that  might 
have  been  great  and  good  and  nobfe  !  Your  triumph  is 
accomplished, — where  is  the  rosy  crown  that  was  to  rest 
lightly  upon  this  aching  brow  ?  Where  are  the  other  joys  my 
youth  was  to  snatch  from  the  future?  Gold  i  gold  ! — it  has 
swayed  me,  it  has  ruined  me, — but  it  is  now  more  hateful 
than  poverty.  Oh  !  when  will  this  bitterness  depart  ?  I 
have  had  a  brief  dream  of  joy  in  my  life ;  I  know  the  mean- 
ing of  the  word  happiness  in  its  loveliest  sense,  but  it  is 
over  ! " 

"  April  4th. — I  am  not  yet  engaged  to  Lincoln  ;  I  have 
again  refused  him,  but  I  feel,  I  know  that  I  shall  be  his  wife. 
This  unwavering  devotion  soothes  the  anguish  of  my  soul.  I 
have  grown  strangely  weak  lately.  I  must  have  a  faithful 
heart  upon  which  to  rest  my  burning  brow.  I  am  so  cold,  I 
have  lost  all  the  passion  of  my  nature  ;  but  I  will,  perhaps, 
recover  from  this  then ;  with  all  meekness  I  will  devote 
myself  to  the  happiness  of  Lincoln.  I  told  him  I  had  Icved 
another.  I  could  not  deceive  him.  My  future  may  yet  be 
calm  and  tranquil.  George's  name  must  be  forbidden  these 
pages ;  yet,  still  too  deeply  beloved  one !  let  me  thank  theo 
for  the  sweetest  cup  of  joy  my  lips  have  ever  tasted  ! 
Farewell !  Dreams  of  thee  have  already  haunted  my  soul 


84  THE    WEALTHY    MARRIAGE. 

too  long ;  life  offers  me  now  a  stern  battle.  I  am  not  worthy 
of  thee,  my  lost  one  !  Thou  wouldst  have  guided  me  through 
flowery  paths  to  Heaven ;  now  Duty  shall  be  my  guide,  my 
incessant,  my  exacting  leader  !" 

"  September  9th. — I  am  very  soon  to  become  the  wife  of 
Lincoln ;  the  prospect  is  not  an  unhappy  one  ;  I  think  I 
shall  love  him  deeply  ;  it  is  my  constant  prayer.  I  think  he 
is  fully  worthy  of  my  affection,  and  duty  and  gratitude  will 
come  to  my  aid.  I  could  not  bear  to  give  my  consent  so 
soon,  when  I  am  still  aware  that  I  am  not  as  devoted  to  him, 
as  I  desire  to  be — I  told  him  this,  and  he  said  he  had  no 
fears.  Would  that  I  could  instantly  forget  my  passionate 
heart's  history.  Yes  !  time  changes  the  warmest  love  of  the 
heart  to  coldness.  Time  is  omnipotent  over  the  wild,  way- 
ward, bursting  heart.  Feelings  beautiful  and  burning 
enough  to  be  immortal.  Oh  God  !  how  they  slowly  die  be- 
neath the  steady  pressure  of  Time's  iron  fingers.  What  is 
feeling  and  love  ?  I  once  thought  they  were  eternal  as  the 
soul  that  droops  helplessly  and  tremblingly  in  their  power. 
T  thought  if  love  entered  my  being,  it  would  remain  for  years 
and  years,  that  no  time  could  make  me  cease  to  thrill  at  a  look 
or  tone  that  once  awoke  the  music  of  my  spirit.  At  times 
I  thought  thus,  when  I  threw  aside  flippancy.  Now  I  have 
00  confidence  in  myself.  I  have  no  feeling — it  has  departed, 
or  it  mercifully  slumbers  for  a  season  until  it  can  be  awaken- 
ed towards  the  one  to  whom  my  faith  is  plighted.  I  think 
sometimes  I  am  sinning  to  give  my  hand  to  Lincoln,  but  I 
have  lost  my  haughty,  self-relying  spirit.  I  should  sink  and 
die  if  his  affection  did  not  form  a  support ;  and  yet,  I  would 


THE    WEALTHY    MARRIAGE.  85 

a  thousand  times  rather  he  would  be  a  brother  than  a  hus- 
band to  me.  He  has  made  himself  necessary  to  my  happi- 
ness ;  it  is  a  disappointment  when  he  omits  one  of  his  fre- 
quent visits ;  he,  more  than  any  one  else  diverts  my  attention 
from  dwelling  on  the  past.  He  has  insensibly  called  forth 
my  dormant  interest  in  the  classic  lore  I  once  so  delighted 
in ;  he  seems  to  understand  my  wants  and  administers  to 
them  with  singular  delicacy.  We  are  soon  to  visit  Europe ; 
then  I  can  indeed  lose  myself  in  olden  dreams  and  be  happy. 
Life  will  once  more  acquire  its  beautiful  interests  ;  hours  of 
quiet  contemplation,  hours  of  love  and  joy,  hours  of  fresh- 
ness and  gaiety,  hours  of  earnest  and  busy  duty,  hours  of 
ardent  and  strength-giving  prayer.  Oh !  for  such  times  of 
happiness  when  I  can  look  to  my  Creator  and  bless  Him  for 
the  smile  upon  my  path." 

"October  Uth. — We  are  on  the  boundless  sea,  and  my  heart 
is  bursting  with  its  love  for  the  dear  ones  I  have  left.  The 
bridal  scenes  are  all  over,  the  last  farewells  spoken,  and  I  am 
far  from  home  and  friends.  I  feel  so  strangely,  so  entirely 
alone — I  could  weep  my  eyes  out.  I  had  no  idea  that  my 
friends  were  so  near  and  dear  to  me.  Sweet  mother  and 
Bessie  !  But  I  will  not  write  now ;  I  shall  soon  be  happy 
again.  Lincoln  is  more  kind  and  devoted  than  ever.  He 
shall  not  see  me  grieve  for  '  home,  sweet  home.'  ' 

"  December  3d. — We  are  still  in  the  gay  city  of  Paris.  I 
can  truly  say  that  I  am  far  happier  than  I  at  one  time  ever 
expected  to  be.  I  am  fully  content,  when  I  consider  how 
little  I  deserve  it,  and  how  utterly  wretched  I  have  been. 


86  THE    WEALTHY    MARRIAGE. 


Now  my  life  lies  before  me  like  a  tranquil  landscape,  not  lit 
up  with  resplendent  hues,  but  sobered  by  the  grave  twilight 
of  experience.  I  know  that  a  better  land  lies  in  the  distance. 
I  have  every  cause  for  gratitude — a  kind  husband,  dear 
friends,  and  the  gratification  of  every  temporal  wish.  I 
know  that  grief  has  had  a  holy  mission  to  my  soul ;  it  has 
made  me  more  like  Bessie.  Her  angel  heart  did  not  need 
such  bitter  teachings  to  learn  the  ways  of  wisdom.'5 

* 
"  October  Qth. — To-night  is  the  second  anniversary  of  my 

marriage.  I  sit  alone,  and  the  evening  stars  of  Italy  burn 
above  my  head.  The  bay  of  Naples  sparkles  in  the  moon- 
light. I  have  gazed  for  hours  out  of  the  window  upon  the 
scene  of  loveliness  presented  ;  and  as  memory  wandered  back 
to  the  home  of  my  childhood,  I  could  not  choose  but  weep  ! 
I  would  give  up  all  this  only  to  be  clasped  to  the  heart  of  my 
sister  ;  she  is  a  happy  bride  now,  ah  !  how  infinitely  happy. 
Comparative  poverty  with  Ralph  is  sweeter  to  her  than  gold 
or  flashing  gems.  The  poetry  of  love  and  goodness  warms 
her  heart ;  it  has  glorified  her  world  ;  it  is  her  shield  against 
petty  ills.  Meek-hearted  Bessie  !  Would  that  thou  couldst 
have  ordered  my  life  in  a  path  as  sweet  as  thine.  But  what 
am  I  saying  ?  Even  now  my  lot  is  better  than  I  deserve, — 
what  have  I  to  do  with  affection  ? — why  should  I  dare  ask  for 
it  ?  Alas  !  I  die  for  it !  I  have  been  terribly  awakened 
from  the  tranquil  dream  that  soothed  past  anguish,  and  robed 
life  again  with  its  lost  interests.  A  cloud  is  over  my  earthly 
life.  How  was  I  so  strangely  deceived?  Lincoln  surely 
loved  me  once,  but  now  he  seems  almost  to  hate  me.  I 
rarely  see  him,  and  when  I  JD  he  treats  me  almost  like  a 


THE    WEALTHY    MARRIAGE.  87 

slave.  If  I  do  some  little  thing  in  the  hope  of  giving  him 
pleasure,  he  thrusts  me  rudely  aside  before  I  can  speak. 
How  fiercely  the  proud  fire  of  my  soul  is  stirred  sometimes  ; 
it  seems  as  if  I  shall  go  frantic.  Once  or  twice  my  passionate 
anger  and  anguish  has  broken  forth  before  him ;  he  simply 
smiles  and  whistles,  and  I  seek  my  room  to  weep,  to  pray,  to 
upbraid  myself  for  forgetting  the  deportment  of  a  Christian. 
I  need  this  discipline,  fearful  as  it  is  ;  it  has  broken  my 
spirit — it  has  opened  my  heart  to  the  suffering  and  tempted. 
It  has  made  me  yearn  intensely  to  become  fitted  for  a  better 
world.  That  is  my  sole  thought,  the  only  hope  left  me  of  all 
the  bright  ones  I  once  cherished.  I  have  laid  my  only  child 
in  the  grave.  It  has  almost  rent  my  heart-strings  asunder  ; 
and  yet  I  thank  God,  daily,  that  my  darling  is  spared  the 
sorrows  of  earth.  Oh  !  if  my  husband  would  not  scorn  my 
affections  ;  if  he  would  but  love  me,  how  wild  would  be  the 
idolatry  this  broken  heart  would  lavish  upon  him ;  how  happy 
I  might  be.  But  I  cannot  love  him  ;  I  did  once,  but  daily  I 
have  to  struggle  against  the  indignant  hatred  that  will  rise 
up  when  he  treats  me  unkindly.  Then,  if  he  once  speak  to 
me  as  of  old,  I  forget  all.  I  trust  he  will  be  what  I  once 
thought  him.  The  deep  wells  of  affection  overflow,  and  for  a 
brief  space  I  am  happy — so  humbly  happy  !  Ah !  how  I  am 
altered.  I  hardly  know  myself.  I  married  him,  not  loving 
him  as  I  ought  and  inwardly  feeling  that  his  love  was  not  so 
noble  as  one  I  cast  away.  I  knew  that  his  principles  were 
not  very  strict,  but  I  have  found  him  an  infidel.  Oh !  George, 
bitter  is  the  retribution  that  I  have  met  with.  Ah  !  pen, 
write  no  more  that  forbidden  name.  Alas  !  forbidden 
thoughts  that  aro  sinful  now,  are  ever,  ever  rushing  through 


88  THE    WEALTHY    MARRIAGE. 

my  heart  like  the  wing  of  a  destroying  angel,  telling  me  what 
I  have  lost.  I  pray  against  it,  I  resolve,  and  re-resolve  ;  I 
despair,  then  take  courage  again  and  meet  my  fate.  Others 
look  upon  me  and  think  I  am  supremely  happy.  They  see 
the  outward,  not  the  inward  life.  Have  I  sinned  so  deeply 
that  I  am  punished  thus  ?  Many  who  are  worse,  meet  with 
a  happier  fate.  I  will  still  have  faith.  I  will  still  trust  in  the 
shadow  of  the  Almighty.  I  will  be  meek-hearted  and  devote 
myself  to  more  fortunate  brethren  and  sisters.  My  husband 
may  yet  learn  to  feel  that  Christianity  is  not  a  fabrication 
of  men.  I  will  be  satisfied  with  my  mission,  I  will  not  sink 
into  apathy,  feeling  that  I  am  useless,  a  miserable  unit  in  the 
world.  I  will  awake,  and  shake  off  these  idle  dreams  of 
earthly  joy.  I  have  at  least  money  at  my  command,  and 
time  that  no  one  claims.  I  will  visit  the  abodes  of  want,  and 
each  day  will  do  some  little  good.  Then  the  regrets  that 
consume  me  will  vanish,  and  affliction,  even  though  brought 
upon  me  by  my  own  hand,  shall  be  my  saving  angel.  He 
who  doeth  all  things  well,  can  also  sweeten  the  waters  of 
eternal  life,  that  I  shall  drink  with  the  bitter  drug  that  1 
cast  into  my  cup." 


THE    ONLY    SISTER   TO    HER    ONLY    BROTHER. 


BIT3ET  Si    Sill    81&1 

\  '        » 

BY     MRS.     SARAH     JOSEPHA     HALE. 

BROTHER  !  while  the  breath  of  even 
Cools  the  burning  brow  of  heaven, 
And  the  stealthy  shadows,  creeping 
Softly  as  an  infant's  sleeping, 
Seem  but  like  the  brooding  fancies 
Which  the  poet's  soul  entrances, 
When  the  outward  world  is  turning 
Dark  beneath  his  spirit's  burning, 
Then  I  stand  amid  the  shrouding 
Memories  on  my  vision  crowding ; 
Then  I  see  our  sainted  mother ! 
Thou  art  with  me,  too,  my  brother ! 

Brother !  would  that  I  were  near  thee, 
Whispering  warmei  words  lo  cheer  thee  r 
Happy  as  in  cheerful  childhood, 
When  we  wandered  through  the  wild  wood, 
Finding  only  pleasant  places, 
Filling  all  with  fairy  faces, 
Sending  on  our  songs  before  us, 
Till  the  rocks  returned  the  chorus, 
Till  the  brook,  our  bourne  of  travel 
With  its  wealth  of  glistening  gravel, 
Reachevi— ol  mines  we  asked  none  other; 
O,  how  rich  we  were — my  brother ! 


90  THE    ONLY    SISTER   TO    HER   OxNLY    BROTHER. 

Brother !  dost  thou  not  remember, 

Through  one  cloudy,  cold  December, 

How  we  counted  Christmas  coming, 

All  its  promised  pleasures  summing  ? 

Softly — lest  our  mother's  sleeping 

Should  be  broken  1     Often  creeping 

:Neath  the  curtain's  close  enfolding, 

And  her  sad,  sweet  face  beholding 

While  she  slumbered  ?     Never  dreaming, 

When  the  blessed  morn  was  beaming, 

Heaven's  bright  dawn  would  wake  our  mother : 

We  be  left  alone,  my  brother ! 

Brother  !  as  the  past  comes  o'er  me, 
Holy  visions  float  before  me ; 
We  are  children  still,  and  keeping 
Watch  beside  our  mother  sleeping  ; 
And  her  life  of  love  and  duty 
Folds  us  with  its  heavenly  beauty  j 
And  her  faith,  like  light  shed  downward, 
Draws  our  faltering  footsteps  onward  ! 
Orphans — though  the  world  oppress  the©, 
And  its  wearing  woes  distress  me, 
Never,  while  we  love  each  other 
And  aie  worthy  of  our  mother, 
Car  we  be  unblessed,  my  brothei  I 


HOW    TO    RUIN    A    YOUNG    MAN. 


BY      THE       EDITOR. 

I  KNEW  a  young  man  who  sowed  wild  oats  for  several 
yvars  and  reaped  more  than  one  unfruitful  harvest.  At  best 
he  found  this  a  very  unprofitable  business,  and  again  and 
again  made  resolutions  to  do  better.  At  last  he  became  in- 
volved in  sundry  small  debts  and  the  holders  of  them,  dis- 
covering that  there  was  something  like  risk  in  the  business, 
grew  very  urgent,  and  my  friend,  whom  I  will  call  Albert 
Armour,  found  himself  much  annoyed  by  demands  which, 
though  willing,  he  was  not  able  to  meet  with  promptness. 
To  make  things  worse,  the  only  employer  in  the  trade  at 
which  he  wrought  gave  up  business  and  Albert  was  thrown 
entirely  out  of  work.  The  entire  prostration  of  business  in 
the  country  reduced  the  demand  for  workmen  in  his  line  in 
neighboring  cities,  and  he  therefore  had  no  inducement  to  go 
to  other  places  to  seek  for  employment.  Besides  himself 
there  was  in  the  city  another  young  man  who  followed  the 
same  trade,  and  as  there  always  existed  a  small  demand  for 
articles  which  they  alone  could  manufacture,  they  conceived 
the  idea  of  setting  up  in  a  small  way  themselves.  I  had  not 
seen  Albert  for  some  months,  when  one  day  he  called  upon 
me.  He  had  changed  much  for  the  worse  in  appearance, 
and  there  was  about  him  a  look  of  concern  almost  approach- 
ing to  distress. 


92  HOW    TO    RUIN    A    YOUNG    MAN. 

"  Albert,  how  do  you  do?5'  said  I,  extending  my  hand; 
for  I  was  really  pleased  to  see  him. 

"  Tolerable,  what's  left  of  me,"  he  replied,  sadly  and 
.  with  a  look  of  shame. 

"  What  are  you  doing  now? "  I  asked. 

"  Nothing  at  all,"  said  he. 

"  How  comes  that,  Albert?" 

"  Old  Turnpenny  has  broken  up,  and  you  know  there  is  no 
^ther  establishment  in  the  city. 

"  But  there  are  several  in  New  York.  Why  don't  you  go 
on  there  1 " 

"  I  have  written,  and  learn  that  one-third  of  the  old  hands 
ha,ve  been  discharged ;  so,  of  course,  there  is  no  chance  for 
new  onej." 

I  did  not  reply,  for  I  was  at  a  loss  for  a  suggestion,  and 
he  continued,  heightening  in  color  : 

"  I  wo  ildn't  care  so  much,  if  I  had  been  prudent  with  my 
earnings.  But  I  have  not ;  and  now  I  am  troubled  with 
some  half  dozen  small  debts  that  it  is  impossible  for  me  to 
pay.  I  n,  ver  dreamed  of  old  Turnpenny's  giving  up." 

"  Have  you  thought  of  nothing?"  I  asked. 

"  Yes,"  h>3  replied,  "  I  have  thought  of  one  thing.  There 
is  a  good  deal  of  work  here  that  could  be  obtained,  if  I  only 
had  the  facilities  for  doing  it.  Johnson  and  I  have  talked 
the  matter  over  seriously,  and  we  think  we  might  do  well,  if 
we  could  only  get  under  way.  Indeed,  he  has  been  round 
among  the  dealers ;  there  are  five  or  six  in  the  city,  you  know, 
and  they  all  gave  him  encouragement  and  promised  us  work.'" 

"  Well,  how  much  would  it  cost  to  fit  you  up  in  a  small 
way?" 


HOW    TO    RUIN    A    YOUNG   MAN.  93 

"  One  hundred  dollars  in  money  would  be  enough.  We 
know  a  carpenter  and  a  bricklayer  who  would  arrange  our 
shop  and  put  up  our  furnaces,  and  wait  until  we  got  fairly 
going  for  their  pay." 

"  I  don't  know,  Albert,  that  I  can  help  you  any,  although 
I  should  like  to  do  so  very  much,"  said  I  ;  "but  I  will  give 
the  matter  all  the  thought  I  can.  Call  again  and  see  me  to- 
morrow." 

"  The  young  man  thanked  me  for  my  interest  and  promis- 
ed to  return.  After  he  was  gone,  I  put  on  my  hat  and  went 
to  see  a  Mr.  Parker,  from  whom  the  principal  part  of  the 
work  which  Albert  expected  to  do  must  come.  This  Mr. 
Parker  was  known  as  a  very  pious  man,  and  I  therefore  ex- 
pected much  from  him. 

"  Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Parker,"  said  I,  as  I  entered  his 
store. 

"  Ah  !  good  day,"  he  responded,  smiling. 

"  You  often  want  jobs  done  in  your  line,  do  you  not  ?  " 
said  I,  coming  at  once  to  the  point. 

"  Well — yes  ;  I  do  sometimes." 

"  Because,"  I  continued,  "  young  Armour  has  nothing  to 
do  now  that  Turnpenny  has  given  up,  and  he  has  some 
thought  of  opening  in  a  small  way.  He  will  have  to  receive 
some  assistance,  however,  for  he  has  nothing  to  begin  with, 
and  I  suppose  there  is  no  one  to  help  him  but  me,  although  I 
have  as  much  as  I  can  do  to  help  myself.  I  have  therefore 
called  on  you  to  know  how  far  he  may  calculate  on  receiving 
work  from  your  establishment." 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  we  are  all  the  while  wanting  something  or 
other  done  ;  and  as  there  will  be  no  other  place  to  go  to,  he 


HOW    TO    RUIN    A    YOUNG   MAN. 


will  of  course  get  the  whole  of  our  work.  But,  if  I  were 
you,  I  would  think  twice,  and  three  times,  too,  before  I  risk- 
ed a  dollar  on  him." 

"  He  has  been  rather  wild,  I  know,  Mr.  Parker.  But  he 
feels  keenly  the  consequences  of  his  imprudence,  and  I  have 
strong  hopes  of  him.  This  is  a  crisis.  If  no  effort  is  made 
to  help  him  to  keep  up  when  he  is  so  desirous  of  sustaining 
himself,  he  will  fall,  I  sadly  fear,  into  hopeless  ruin.  You 
know  he  can  get  no  work  here,  because  there  is  no  employer 
in  the  city ;  and  business  has  fallen  to  half  its  usual  amount 
in  the  other  principal  cities." 

"  That's  his  look-out,  you  know,"  Mr.  Parker  replied, 
tossing  his  head.  "  Why  didn't  he  take  care  of  his  money 
when  he  could  earn  it?  He  would  have  had  more  than 
enough  to  begin  with  now.  Let  him  feel  the  shoe  pinch,  it 
will  do  him  good." 

"  He  does  feel  it  severely,  Mr.  Parker,"  I  urged.  "  But 
the  crisis  has  come  with  him.  Surely  it  would  not  be  right 
to  leave  him,  hopeless,  in  his  extremity." 

"  I've  no  confidence  in  such  kind  of  people  as  he  is.  He 
may  be  very  much  distressed  now,  but  set  him  on  his  feet 
again,  and  he'll  be  as  bad  as  ever,  I  have  not  the  least 
doubt." 

"  You'll  give  him  work  ?"  said  I,  unwilling  to  bandy  words 
with  one  whose  uncharitable  selfishness  shut  up  his  heart  to 
the  claims  of  humanity. 

"  Oh,  of  course,  when  I  want  anything  done." 

"  Very  well,"  said  I,  bowing  and  turning  away. 

I  saw  Armour  during  the  day,  and  told  him  that  I  would 
be  his  security  for  certain  tools  and  materials  that  were  re- 


HOW    TO    RUIN    A    YOUNG    MAN.  95 


quired,  and  besides  that  lend  him  fifty  dollars.  He  was  very 
grateful.  Taking  my  hand,  and  pressing  it  warmly,  he 
said : 

"  You  shall  never  repent  having  helped  me  just  in  this 
crisis.  I  have  been  very  improvident  and  very  wicked  ;  but 
I  am  earnest  in  my  purpose  to  change." 

"  Be  true  to  your  present  good  intention,  and  all  will  be 
well,"  1  said,  encouragingly.  "  You  have  now  a  fair  chance 
before  you.  There  is  plenty  of  work  in  the  city,  and  your 
shop  will  be  the  only  one  where  it  can  be  done.  But, 
you  mustn't  expect  any  thing  more  than  jobbing  for  the  first 
year.  The  heaviest  work  will  be  sent  to  New  York  or  Phil- 
adelphia, of  course.  But,  as  you  get  yourselves  established, 
and  the  trade  gain  confidence  in  you,  more  important  work 
will  begin  to  come  into  your  hands,  and  in  time  enable  you 
to  build  up,  if  you  will,  a  little  fortune.  An  opening  like  the 
present  does  not  often  occur ;  if  you  fully  embrace  the  op- 
portunity before  you,  you  are  made." 

Armour  seemed  deeply  grateful  for  what  I  had  done,  and 
avowed  it  to  be  his  determination  to  devote  himself  to  his 
business  with  the  most  untiring  industry. 

I  cannot  say  that  I  had  the  fullest  confidence  in  the  result 
And  yet  I  had  great  hopes  that  all  would  turn  out  well.  I 
knew  the  young  man's  weakness,  and  felt  the  danger  he  was 
in  What  I  most  feared  was,  that  every  thing  might  not  go 
on  smoothly,  and  that  he  would  get  discouraged,  lose  his 
energies  and  fall  back  into  old  habits  of  idleness  and  dissipa- 
tion. 

Every  thing  depended  upon  the  young  men's  getting  cash 
for  their  work.  They  had  neither  capital  nor  credit.  ID 


96  HOW    TO    RUIN    A    YOUNG    MAN. 

order  to  procure  a  few  small  but  indispensable  articles  in 
their  shop,  I  loaned  Armour,  as  I  had  promised,  fifty  dollars 
in  cash.  The  business  in  which  they  were  engaged  was  that 
of  stereotype  founders.  They  had  two  or  three  small  jobs 
of  repairing  plates  to  begin  with,  and  went  to  work  in  good 
spirits. 

On  the  third  day,  as  Armour  informed  me,  Parker  came 
into  the  shop,  and  after  looking  around  with  an  air  of  doubt 
and  suspicion,  said  in  a  rude  way — 

"  So  you've  got  to  doing  something  again  1 " 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "I'm  trying  to  do  something." 

"  It's  a  pity  you  hadn't  always  tried.  It  would  have  been 
better  for  you,  and  other  people  too." 

"  I  don't  know,  Mr.  Parker,"  said  Armour,  endeavoring 
to  speak  in  a  way  as  little  offensive  as  possible,  "  that  I  ever 
injured  you." 

"I  do,  then ;  and  seriously  at  that." 

"  How  so  ?  "  asked  Armour  in  surprise. 

"  I  can  soon  tell  you.  I  had  an  important  work  in  the 
hands  of  Mr.  Turnpenny  stopped  by  your  going  off  in  one  of 
your  wild  frolics,  and  lost  all  the  advantages  of  the  fall  trade 
sales." 

a  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Armour.  "  I  acted  wrong,  I 
know." 

"  Precious  little  good  does  your  being  sorry  now  do  me.  / 
think  men  ought  to  be  punished  for  such  things.  What 
right  has  either  you  or  any  one  else  to  injure  me  in  that 
way?" 

"  No  right  at  all.  I  have  no  excuse  to  make.  But  what 
is  past  I  cannot  help  now." 


HOW    TO    RUIN    A    YOUNG    MAN.  .  97 


"  Yes !  That's  about  all  the  satisfaction  a  body  gets. 
But  do  you  think,  if  I  give  you  a  job  to  do  now,  I  can  de- 
pend upon  you?" 

"  I  think  you  can,  Mr.  Parker.  I  will  try  and  do  it  well, 
and  in  time.  How  large  a  job  is  it  ?" 

"  I  want  my  pearl  Bible  plates  thoroughly  repaired.  I  in- 
tended to  send  them  to  New  York,  but  the  trouble,  cost  of 
transportation  and  insurance  make  me  wish  to  have  the  work 
done  here,  if  it  can  be  done.  But  I'm  half  afraid  to  trust 
you  with  them.5' 

"  You  must  do  as  you  like  about  that,"  replied  Armour, 
coldly.  He  felt  hurt  at  these  uncalled  for  remarks. 

"Can  you  go  at  them  at  once  ? " 

«  Yes." 

"  And  push  them  right  through? " 

"  Yes." 

"  How  long  will  it  take  you,  do  you  think? " 

"It  will  be  impossible  to  tell,  until  we  examine  the 
plates." 

The  plates  were  sent  in,  examined,  and  the  amount  of 
work  to  be  done  on  them  ascertained  as  nearly  as  possible. 
It  would  take  at  least  three  weeks  to  do  all  that  was  requir- 
ed, and  the  whole  job,  when  finished,  would  be  worth  about 
eitow.ty  dollars.  In  order  to  get  through  with  these  plates  in 
time,  other  work  had  to  be  laid  aside  and  a  number  of  little 
jobs  put  off  or  declined  altogether. 

A  week  after  the  shop  was  opened,  two  or  three  of  those 
to  whom  Armour  was  indebted  in  small  sums,  geeing  that  he 
was  at  work  again  and  actually  "  in  business  for  himself," 
commenced  a  system  of  dunning,  to  which  threats  were  soon 


HOW    TO    RUIN    A    YOUNG    MAN. 


added.  This  the  young  man  bore  as  patiently  as  possible, 
although  it  disheartened  him  very  much.  Almost  every  day 
Parker  came  in  to  see  how  his  plates  were  progressing  ;  and 
he  always  peered  about  in  a  suspicious  manner,  that  fretted 
Armour  exceedingly.  One  day  he  came  in  and  found  Ar- 
mour, who  was  the  "  finisher,"  engaged  on  another  job. 

"  Just  as  I  expected  !"  said  Parker.  "  I've  been  looking 
for  this  every  day." 

"  Looking  for  what  ?  "  asked  Armour. 

"  Looking  to  see  my  work  laid  aside  for  that  of  somebody 
else." 

"  It's  a  mere  trifling  job,  and  is  very  much  needed.  The 
person  who  wanted  it  done  was  so  anxious  about  it  and  so 
urgent  that  we  could  not  put  him  off." 

"  I  don't  care  how  anxious  and  urgent  he  was.  You  had 
no  right  to  lay  my  work  aside  for  any  body's.  If  this  is  all 
the  dependence  that  is  to  be  placed  in  you,  I  will  take  care, 
another  time,  how  I  put  any  thing  into  your  hands."  And 
Parker  went  away  quite  angry. 

Some  weeks  after  this,  Armour  called  on  me,  looking  in 
trouble. 

"  How  are  you  getting  along  1 "  I  asked. 

"  I  could  get  along  well  enough  if  they  would  let  me  alone 
until  I  got  fairly  on  my  feet." 

"  Who  is  troubling  you  ?  " 

"  Close,  the  tailor.  He  commenced  dunning  me  every 
Cwo  or  three  days  from  the  first  week  we  opened,  and  now  he 
has  waranted  me  for  what  I  owe  him." 

"  How  much  is  it  1 " 

"  Forty-three  dollars." 


HOW    TO    RUIN    A    YOUNG    MAN.  99 

"  Can't  you  pay  him  a  part  1  Perhaps  if  you  were  to  do 
so,  he  would  wait  for  the  balance  a  little  longer." 

"  I  haven't  a  dollar  to  give  him.  We  laid  aside  every 
thing  for  Parker's  work,  which  has  been  finished  for  two 
weeks,  and  so  far  he  hasn't  paid  us  a  cent;  and  we  are 
out  of  metal,  and  not  able  to  go  on  with  work  now  in  the 
shop." 

"  Have  you  handed  in  the  bill  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  took  it  in  the  day  after  the  plates  were  sent 
home." 

"  What  did  he  say  ?  " 

"  He  took  it,  and  after  running  his  eye  over  it,  tossed  it 
upon  his  desk,  saying  in  an  indifferent  tone — 'Very  well; 
leave  it.'" 

"  Have  you  seen  him  since?" 

"  Yes,  I  called  in  three  or  four  days,  and  he  said  he 
thought  we  were  in  a  great  hurry  about  the  bill.  I  replied 
that  we  had  laid  every  thing  aside  for  his  work,  and  that 
unless  he  paid  us  for  it  we  could  not  go  on,  as  we  were  both 
very  poor.  '  For  that  you  have  nobody  to  blame  but  your- 
selves. Why  didn't  you  save  your  money  while  you  had  a 
chance  to  do  so  1 '  he  replied  to  this.  I  told  him  that  the 
past  could  not  be  helped  now ;  all  we  wanted  was  a  little 
chance  for  the  future.  He  did  not  offer  to  pay  the  bill, 
although  I  lingered  in  his  store  for  ten  or  fifteen  minutes.  In 
a  week  I  called  again,  but  he  was  in  New  York.  As  soon 
as  he  returned,  I  saw  him,  but  he  said  that  he  had  no  time 
to  attend  to  it.  If  we  only  had  his  bill,  which  is  nearly  a 
hundred  dollars,  we  could  buy  metal,  I  could  pay  Close  ten 
or  fifteen  dollars  and  get  him  to  wait,  and  we  would  feel  en 


100  HOW    TO    RUIN    A  YOUNG    MAN. 


couraged  to  press  on  more  actively  than  ever ;  but,  as  it  is, 
we  are  both  disheartened." 

"  Try  and  not  feel  so,"  said  I.  "  It  is  very  bad  to  give 
way  to  discouraging  thoughts." 

"  But  how  can  I  help  it  ?  "  he  returned,  with  some1  bitter- 
ness. "  Parker  calls  himself  a  Christian  and  goes  to  church 
on  Sunday  with  a  long  pious  face — I've  seen  him — and  yet, 
in  a  mean,  selfish  and  malignant  spirit,  withholds  from  me 
the  few  dollars  I  have  earned  with  hard  labor,  and  which  are 
all  that  stand  between  me  and  ruin.  If  I  break  down  in  this 
my  most  sincere  and  earnest  effort  to  do  well,  the  sin  will  lie 
at  his  door.  A  Christian  indeed  ! " 

"  Don't  feel,  don't  think,  don't  talk  in  this  way,  Armour !" 
I  said,  earnestly.  But  he  replied — 

"  How  can  I  help  it  ?  It  is  no  light  thing,  depend  upon  it, 
thus  to  break  down  a  man  in  his  earnest  struggle  against  the 
power  of  bad  habits  and  the  disabilities  they  have  entailed 
upon  him.  If  I  fail  in  this  effort,  I  shall  not,  in  all  pro- 
bability, have  the  heart  to  try  again,  and  even  if  I  had,  no 
one  would  again  put  any  confidence  in  me." 

"  These  are  only  your  trials,"  I  urged.  "  Stand  up, 
bravely,  under  them,  and  you  will  come  out  right.  To  give 
up  can  only  make  things  worse." 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do  with  Close?  He  will  get  a  judg- 
ment against  me  and  seize  upon  our  shop  and  sell  it.  I  can- 
not prevent  this." 

After  thinking  upon  the  matter  for  a  short  time,  I  felt  it  to 
be  my  duty  to  go  still  farther  than  I  had  done  in  my  efforts 
to  put  the  young  man  fairly  on  his  feet.  I  therefore  offered 
to  go  his  security  for  the  debt  to  Close,  and  thus  get  a  stav 


HOW   TO    RUIN    A    YOUNG   MAN.  101 

• 

of  execution  for  six  months.  I  also  loaned  him  ten  dollars 
more,  to  enable  them  to  buy  metal  and  go  on  with  the  work 
that  was  in  the  shop. 

But  Armour  felt  too  much  discouraged  to  work  with  spirit. 
Three  days  after  I  had  gone  his  security  for  the  debt  to  Close, 
I  was  surprised  to  see  him  coming  out  of  a  tavern.  I  met 
him  face  to  face  as  he  did  so.  He  colored  up  and  looked 
confused.  I  did  not  allude  to*  the  fact  of  his  again  going  to 
the  tavern,  but  I  felt  my  confidence  in  his  ultimate  success 
greatly  impaired. 

"  Has  Parker  settled  his  bill  yet?  "  I  asked. 

"  No,  and  what  is  more,  I  do  n't  believe  he  intends  doing 
it,"  he  replied,  in  an  angry  voice. 

"  Why  do  you  think  so  ?" 

"  A  young  man  in  his  store  told  me  that  he  heard  him  ad- 
vise a  man  who  has  a  judgment  against  me  for  eighty  dollars 
— (it  is  no  debt  of  my  own,  but  one  for  which  I  was  fool 
enough  to  go  security) — to  push  me,  and  then  ask  for  an  order 
on  him." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  "  I  exclaimed  in  surprise. 

"  That  the  story  was  true  I  soon  had  proof  all-sufficient  to 
convince  me,  in  the  visit  of  a  constable  to  the  shop.  He  was 
there  yesterday.  And  this  morning  the  holder  of  the  claim 
called  to  ask  if  I  would  give  him  an  order  on  Parker." 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"  I  was  so  angry  that  I  could  n't  contain  myself,  and  told 
him -that  I  would  see  him  in  a  hotter  place  than  this,  first." 

"  You  were  wrong  in  that,"  said  I. 

"  Perhaps  I  was.  But  I  was  so  fretted  that  I  could  not 
contain  myself.  Johnson,  my  partner,  is  terribly  put  out 


102  HOW    TO    RUIN    A    YOUNG   MAN. 

about  the  whole  matter  and  blames  me  for  what  I  cannot 
now  help.  The  fact  is,  I  feel  desperate." 

u  But  think,  my  young  friend,"  I  urged,  "  that  you  are 
under  obligation  to  me  not  to  give  up,  but  to  struggle  on  to 
the  end." 

"  That  the  breaking  up  of  our  business  must  necessarily 
involve  you  in  loss  is  what  troubles  me.  As  for  myself,  I 
feel  quite  indifferent  as  to  what  becomes  of  me.  Every  thing 
is  adverse,  and  I  shall  30  to  the  wall  in  spite  of  all  I  can 
do." 

I  found  it  all  in  vain  to  talk  to  the  young  man ;  he  had 
been  taking  a  glass  of  brandy  and  that  had  inflamed  and  un- 
settled his  mind. 

Unwilling  as  I  was  to  interfere  in  the  business  transactions 
of  others,  I  still  felt  it  to  be  my  duty  to  call  upon  Parker, 
and  urge  him  to  act  differently  toward  the  young  men.  I 
found  that  the  man  he  had  advised  to  ask  Armour  for  an 
order  on  him,  owed  him  money,  and  that  it  was  to  secure  the 
debt  due  to  himself  that  he  had  proposed  the  measure.  He 
was  very  formal  and  distant  with  me  and  quickly  closed  the 
interview  by  saying  that  the  bill  would  have  to  be  settled  in 
that  way ;  it  was  the  only  chance  he  would  probably  ever 
have  to  get  his  money,  and  he  was  determined  to  improve  it. 
Armour,  he  alleged,  was  a  wicked  young  man  and  did  not 
deserve  encouragement ;  he  had  already  done  him  more  in- 
jury than  he  would  ever  atone  for. 

The  case  I  now  felt  to  be  almost  hopeless.  I  was  not  able 
to  risk  any  thing  further  ;  and  if  I  had  been,  the  spirit  in 
which  the  efforts  of  the  young  man  to  do  right  had  been  met 
was  so  bad,  and  had  already  produced  such  an  unhappy 


HOW    TO    RUIN    A    YOUNG   MAN*  103 

effect  upon  his  mind,  that  I  should  have  doubted  the  utility 
of  doing  so. 

Without  remorse  or  delay,  the  coercive  system  proposed 
was  carried  through.  An  execution  was  issued  and  the  shop 
of  the  young  men  seized  and  sold.  It  was  bought  by  Parker, 
who  employed  Johnson  to  carry  on  the  business  for  him. 
Armour  was  offered  work  as  a  journeyman,  with  good  wages, 
but  he  indignantly  refused  to  accept  of  it,  and  in  a  moment 
of  anger  and  despondency  and  while  under  the  effects  of 
liquor,  enlisted  in  the  United  States  dragoon  service  for  five 
years.  I  lost,  in  the  effort  to  help  him  to  do  right,  about  two 
hundred  dollars ;  and  Parker,  in  breaking  him  down,  recover- 
ed a  debt  of  seventy  or  eighty  dollars,  and  got  possession  of 
a  small  stereotype  office,  which  has,  in  the  course  of  seven  or 
eight  years,  grown  into  a  large  and  profitable  establishment. 

I  used  often  to  meet  Parker  on  his  way  to  church,  accom- 
panied by  his  wife  and  daughter  ;  he  had  a  rigidly  righteous 
look,  but  I  always  thought,  when  I  met  him,  of  poor 
Armour  in  the  far  distant  west,  who,  instead  of  being  an 
oppressed,  degraded  soldier,  might,  but  for  his  shameless  con- 
duct toward  him,  have  been  a  happy,  useful  citizen.  Some- 
times I  would  ask  myself  the  question,  whether,  for  the  ruin 
of  that  man,  he  would  not  be  held  answerable  ? 

Five  years  and  more  passed  and  I  had  ceased  to  think  as 
often  as  at  first  of  the  unfortunate  young  man  I  had  sought  to 
save  from  himself,  when,  going  one  day  in  Parker's  store  to 
buy  a  book,  I  noticed  a  poor,  degraded  looking  creature  enter 
and  pass  along  through  the  crowd  of  customers  who  stood 
at  the  counter.  He  appeared  to  be  very  much  in  liquor. 

"  Is  Mr.  Parker  in  ?  "  I  heard  him  ask  of  a  clerk.     The 


104  HOW    TO   RUIN    A    YOUNG    MAN. 

clerk  pointed  to  the  owner  of  the  store,  who  stood  in  a  small 
group  of  his  church  brethren,  with  whom  he  was  conversing 
on  matters  of  religion.  Most  of  these  were  really  good  and 
true  men  and  as  unlike  him  as  day  is  unlike  night. 

."  Mr.  Parker  ! "  said  the  man,  going  up  to  him.  "  How 
do  you  do,  sir  ?  I  reckon  you  do  n't  know  me  ?  " 

"  No,  I  certainly  do  not ;  and  what  is  more,  do  not  wish  to 
know  you." 

"  Mr.  Parker,"  resumed  the  man,  "  you  've  got  a  foundry, 
and  I  'm  a  first-rate  finisher,  and  want  work.  Will  you  give 
me  a  job?" 

"  I  never  employ  drinking  men  in  my  establishment." 

This  appeared  to  fret  the  applicant  and  partially  to  sober 
him,  for  he  replied  sharply, 

"  Not  even  of  your  own  making,  I  suppose  1 " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Parker,  annoyed  at  this 
remark. 

"  I  mean,  sir,  just  what  I  said,"  was  retorted. 

"  You  don't  pretend  to  say  that  I  made  you  a  drunkard  ?  " 

ac  That 's  just  what  I  do  pretend  to  say.  But  for  you,  I 
would  have  been  this  day  a  sober,  steady,  honest,  industrious 
man,  and  would  have  been  the  owner  of  the  very  foundry  you 
possess." 

It  was  Armour  !  I  stepped  forward,  unobserved  by  him,  a 
deeply  interested  witnes?  of  what  was  passing. 

"  The  man  is  crazy  !  said  Parker,  much  irritated.  "  I 
never  saw  him  before." 

"  Never  saw  Albert  Armour  before  !  I  should  like  to  hear 
you  deny  that  in  the  day  of  judgment." 

"  Armour !"   ejaculated  the  bookseller  in  sui  prise,  while 


HOW    TO    RUIN    A    YOUNG    MAN.  105 

a  flush  passed  over  his  face,  "  I  never  did  you  harm.  You 
were  your  own  enemy." 

a  Never  did  me  harm !"  said  the  poor,  ruined  creature, 
elevating  his  voice,  and  speaking,  with  a  brief  but  subduing 
eloquence,  so  loud  that  all  in  the  store  could  hear  him  dis- 
tinctly. u  Didn't  you,  five  years  ago,  when  I,  resolving  to 
mend  my  ways,  started  by  the  aid  of  a  kind  friend  the 
foundry  you  now  own,  give  me  work  ?  Didn't  you,  knowing 
that  I  had  not  a  dollar  to  help  myself  with,  after  I  had  put 
off  every  body's  work  to  do  yours,  refuse  to  pay  the  bill,  and 
insult  me  when  I  asked  for  it  ?  Did  n't  you  then  advise  a 
man  to  whom  I  had  become  indebted  by  going  security  for  a 
friend,  to  sue  me  and  ask  for  an  order  on  you  ?  Did'nt  that 
man  take  your  advice  ?  Wasn't  I,  for  refusing  to  do  this, 
which  was  equivalent  to  ruin,  sold  out  remorselessly  ?  And 
didn't  you  buy  the  office  for  a  song  ?  Answer  me,  sir  ;  and 
say,  in  the  presence  of  all  these  men,  if  these  things  be  not 
true  ?  " 

For  a  few  moments  Parker  seemed  terribly  cut  down,  but 
he  rallied  himself  with  a  strong  effort,  and  attempted  to  deny 
what  Armour  had  alleged  against  him. 

"  You  may  deny  before  these  men,"  returned  Armour, 
"  but  thank  God  !  there  's  a  day  coming  when  denial  will  do 
no  good." 

"  Henry,  go  round  and  bring  a  police  officer,"  said 
Parker,  turning  to  one  of  his  clerks. 

"  I  '11  wait  until  he  returns,"  retorted  Armour,  coolly. 
"  I  should  like,  above  all  things,  to  face  you  at  the  police 

office.  I  '11  send  for  Mr.  as  evidence  of  the  truth  of 

what  I  Ve  said,  and  exhibit  myself  as  a  specimen  of  your 


106  HOW    TO    RUIN    A    YOUNG   MAN. 

handiwork,  Mr.  Parker ! "  The  man's  manner  changed 
Some  thought,  some  memory  seemed  to  have  touched  his 
feelings.  "  It  was  a  cruel  thing  in  you  to  put  your  hand 
upon  me,  as  you  did,  and  crush  me  to  the  earth,  when,  with 
strength  little  above  that  possessed  by  an  infant,  I  was  trying 
to  walk  in  the  right  way.  You  did  not  speak  to  me  an  en- 
couraging word,  but  insulted  me  with  suspicion  and  sneering 
references  to  the  past.  This  I  could  have  borne,  although  it 
made  a  place  in  my  breast  for  a  tempting  devil ;  but  when 
you  withheld  from  me  almost  the  first  money  I  earned,  and 
without  which  I  could  not  move  on  a  step,  you  ruined  my 
worldly  prospects  and  made  me  reckless.  For  five  years,  as 
a  common  soldier,  I  have  been  passing  a  wretched  and 
degraded  life,  while  you  have  been  growing  richer,  and  it 
may  be  happier  in  your  own  way,  by  means  of  the  business 
of  which  I  was  defrauded.  Yes,"  he  added,  with  returning 
bitterness,  "  let  us  go  to  the  police  office  and  have  this  his- 
tory fully  told.5' 

"  Leave  my  store  instantly ! "  exclaimed  Parker,  excited 
beyond  control. 

The  man  did  not  move. 

"  Leave  it,  I  say,  or  I  will  throw  you  headlong  into  the 
street ! " 

Parker  sprang  toward  the  man,  and  had  seized  him  by  the 
collar,  when  I,  no  longer  able  to  keep  silence,  stepped  forward 
and  said, 

"  You  have  done  him  harm  enough  already,  Mr.  Parker, 
Don't  be  tempted  to  do  him  any  more.  All  he  has  said  I 
know  to  be  true,  and  that  the  crime  of  ruining  a  man  for  this 
world,  if  not  also  f  >r  the  next,  rests  upon  your  head." 


HOW    TO    RUIN    A    YOUNG    MAN.  107 

Parker  released  his  hold  and  staggered  back,  utterly  con- 
founded. Armour  was  equally  surprised.  The  latter 
grasped  my  hand,  and,  with  the  tears  starting  to  his  eyes, 
said, 

"  Mr. !  you  were  always  my  friend,  although  through 

this  man  you  lost  over  two  hundred  dollars  by  helping  me  in 
a  single  instance.  I  have  thought  of  you  often,  and,  wicked 
sinner  as  I  am,  have  sometimes  prayed  that  what  you  lost  by 
me  might  be  made  up  again  in  some  way." 

"  Come  ! "  said  I,  interrupting  him,  and  drawing  him  out 
of  the  store,  that  was  full  of  astonished  spectators  of  this 
strange  scene. 

My  earnest  efforts  to  put  Armour  on  his  feet  again  proved, 
alas  !  useless.  He  had  become  too  much  degraded  by  drink 
and  vicious  company,  and  had  not  moral  power  enough  left  to 
sustain  him  in  any  attempt  at  reform.  Whenever  he  got 
drunk,  he  would  be  sure  to  give  Parker  a  call  and  charge  him 
with  being  the  author  of  his  ruin.  Several  times  he  was 
thrust  out  of  his  store  and  several  times  handed  over  to  the 
police.  These  visitations  were  continued,  more  or  less  fre- 
quently, for  about  six  months,  wThen  abused  nature  could  bear 
no  longer  the  rude  assaults  to  which  she  had  been  for  years 
subjected.  The  degraded,  unhappy  wretch  was  found  one 
cold  morning  in  December  dead,  under  a  stall  in  the  market- 
house  ! 

My  own  verdict  in  the  case  I  found  no  difficulty  in  making 
up.  Parker  was,  in  my  mind,  guilty  of  his  premature  and 
miserable  end.  A  few  encouraging  words,  with  simple 
justice  toward  him,  when  he  was  struggling  to  do  right, 
would  have  saved  him. 


108  HAVE    PATIENCE. 

With  a  few  variations  from  the  facts  as  they  occurred,  this 
is  an  "  ower  true  tale,"  and  the  lesson  it  teaches  will  do 
much  good,  if  laid  to  heart.  A  man  who  has  once  fallen  into 
habits  of  idleness  and  dissipation  needs,  in  his  efforts  to 
reform,  the  utmost  kindness  and  consideration.  All  men 
should  not  only  be  just  toward  him,  but  should  meet  him 
with  encouraging  words  and  acts  ;  and  no  man,  who  would 
not  incur  a  fearful  responsibility,  should,  in  even  the  smallest 
matter,  do  any  thing  to  extinguish  the  new-born  hope  of  a 
better  life  that  has  been  kindled  in  his  bosom.  Too  often  it 
happens  that  men  like  Parker,  calling  themselves  religious, 
have  the  least  charity  for  one  who  has  once  fallen  into  evil 
ways,  and  by  their  conduct  drive  him  back  again  into  dissipa- 
tion, instead  of  holding  him  fast  by  the  hand  to  keep  him 
from  falling.  I  have  met  many,  very  many  such  in  my  life. 
Would  that  their  number  were  less  ! 


SAY!    VATIl VCB 

BY     \VM.     C.     RICHARDS. 

HAVE  patience  !  the  clouds  will  depart 

That  o'ershadow  thee  now ; 
The  sorrow  will  pass  from  thy  heart — 

And  the  care  from  thy  brow  : 

Have  patience !  the  sunshine  will  glow — 
For  the  shadow — more  bright, 

As  the  morning  is  fairer,  you  know — 
For  the  darkness  of  night. 


THE    DYING    WIFi'  .  1Q9 


SHI    3  Y  X  V  ft    Will. 

ANXIOUS  friends  had  bent  sorrowfully  over  $ie  dying  wife 
and  mother  for  many  hours  of  the  lonely  night,  and  now,  the 
stars  were  fading  from  the  clear  blue  sky.  The  first  faint 
beams  of  the  morning  wandered  dimly  into  the  chamber  of 
affliction,  and  the  melancholy  light  paled  the  flickering  night 
lamp,  which  threw  its  sickly  rays  over  the  faces  of  both  the 
living  and  the  dying,  adding  a  deeper  hue  to  sorrow  and  a 
more  solemn  expression  to  death. 

A  solemn  stillness  reigned  in  the  chamber,  broken  only  by 
the  hollow  and  oppressed  breathing  of  her  who  was  struggling 
in  her  last,  closing,  agony.  A  gentle  hand  pushed  open  the 
half-closed  door,  and  a  child,  scarce  three  years  old,  glided 
softly  in  and  unrestrained  pressed  close  up  to  the  bedside. 
A  tear  was  on  her  young  cheek.  Sleep  had  fled  from  her 
pillow  and  as  if  by  instinct  she  had  left  her  bed  and  sought 
the  bosom  of  her  who  had  nourished  her  and  carried  her 
there  in  the  hours  of  infantine  helplessness.  The  mother's 
eye  brightened  as  she  met  the  look  of  her  dear  child — but  it 
was  the  gleam  of  affection,  saddened  to  a  cast  of  agony. 

"  Mother,"  said  the  little  one  in  her  clear,  sweet  tone,  a 
smile  dimpling  her  cheek  and  throwing  a  ray  of  sunshine  over 
her  face.  Then  climbing  to  a  chair  and  from  a  chair  to  the 
bed,  she  nestled  down  upon  the  breast  of  her  dying  mother, 
her  little  arms  thrown  fondly  around  her  neck,  and  her  warm 


110  THE    DYING    WIFE. 


young  cheek  resting  against  one  damp  with  the  clammy  sweat 
of  dissolution.  Busy  hands  sought  to  remove  the  child  from 
its  resting  place,  but  the  maternal  arm  bound  it  fast  with  a 
convulsive  effort. 

The  door  again  turned  upon  its  silent  hinges  and  one 
entered  with  a  heavy  tread.  Though  the  dim  light  of  the 
morning  had  scarce  given  way  before  the  clear  sunbeams,  yet 
intoxication  was  written  in  burning  letters  upon  his  brow. 
Rudely  he  approached  the  bed  side  and  for  a  moment,  with  half 
idiotic  stare,  surveyed  the  touching  memorials  it  contained. 

"  Your  mother  is  dying,  Amelia,"  said  he  in  a  drunken, 
faltering  tone,  seating  himself  upon  the  bed.  "  Your 
mother  is  dying,  Amelia,  and  you  must  not  lie  there ;  come 
away  ! " 

The  mother's  arm  clung  to  her  child  with  a  firm  grasp,  and 
her  eye  looked  up  into  the  face  of  her  husband  with  an  im- 
ploring gaze,  though  the  death  film  was  gathering  over  it. 

"  I  tell  you  to  come  away,"  said  he  in  a  louder  tone. 

The  females  who  were  watching  the  friend  they  loved  in 
her  last  extremity,  tried  to  draw  the  inhuman  monster 
from  his  cruel  purpose,  but  to  their  gentle  interference  he 
answered, 

"  She  must  not  stay  there !  Amelia's  dying,  and  I  want  her 
to  die  in  peace.  Poor  thing !  it  will  soon  be  over  with  her  ! " 

Then  taking  hold  of  the  resisting  child,  he  tore  it  rudely 
from  the  restraining  arm  of  its  dying  mother,  who  uttered  a 
faint  groan  as  its  infant  cries  rang  in  her  ears,  fell  back  and 
died. 

This  is  no  fancy  sketch. 

j.  r,  R. 


THE    GREAT    HEREAFTER.  Ill 


BY     OTWAY     CURRY. 

'  Tis  sweet  to  think  when  struggling 
The  goal  of  life  to  win, 
That  just  beyond  the  shores  of  time 
The  better  years  begin. 

When  through  the  nameless  ages 
T  cast  my  longing  eyes, 
Before  me  like  a  boundless  sea, 
The  Great  Hereafter  lies. 

Along  its  brimming  bosom, 
Perpetual  summer  smiles, 
And  gathers,  like  a  golden  robe, 
Around  the  emerald  isles. 

There,  in  the  blue  long  distance, 
By  lulling  breezes  fanned, 
I  seem  to  see  the  flowering  groves 
Of  old  Beulah's  land. 

And  far  beyond  the  islands 
That  gem  the  waves  serene, 
The  image  of  the  cloudless  shore 
Of  holy  heaven  is  seen. 


112  WINTER. 

Unto  the  Great  Hereafter— 
Aforetime  dim  and  dark  — 
I  freely  now  and  gladly  give 
Of  life  the  wandering  bark. 

And  in  the  far-off  haven, 
When  shadowy  seas  are  passed, 
By  angel  hands  its  quivering  sails 
Shall  all  be  furled  at  last. 


WIVX31. 

BY      C.      L.      WHEELEk. 

COME  in  and  close  the  linted  door, 

And  slrit  the  cold  without ; 
And  gather  in  our  wonted  ring 

The  warm  fireside  about, 

JTis  pleasure  through  these  winter  rights. 

While  winds  are  piercing  cold, 
To  gather  round  our  own  fireside, 

Where  merry  tales  are  told  ; 

Where  tales  are  told,  and  poems  read, 

Improving  heart  and  mind, 
Till  feelings  warm,  from  care's  anno), 

All  yearn  for  human  kind. 

May  many  winters,  friend  of  mine 

Be  still  in  store  for  thee, 
And  harvests  rich  still  swell  the  store 

Of  Christmas  jollity. 


THE    CAMPO   SANTO.  113 


ff  3S  1    CAX7Q    tAVIt. 

BY     CHARLES     G.     LELAND. 

THERE  is  near  Naples  a  very  beautiful  burying-ground, 
known  as  the  New  Campo  Santo.  The  place  cannot,  as  far 
as  natural  beauty  is  concerned,  be  compared  with  Mount 
Auburn,  Greenwood  or  Laurel  Hill,  although  it  commands 
many  beautiful  views  of  the  city  and  its  environs.  Its  chief 
attraction  is  the  number  and  beauty  of  the  sepulchral  monu- 
ments which  it  contains. 

We  were  shown  over  the  ground  by  a  bare-footed  capuchin, 
who  seemed  the  very  type  of  good-humored  jollity.  Had 
Rabelais  written  in  the  year  1847,  I  should  say  that  Friar 
John  was  but  a  transcript  of  this  person.  Grave-diggers  are 
proverbially  merry,  and  something  of  this  seemed  to  have 
been  communicated  to  our  worthy  friend  in  brown,  whose 
office  it  was  to  tend  the  corpses  laid  out  in  a  long  room 
adjoining  the  cemetery.  In  this  place  the  bodies  are  laid  on 
beds,  with  a  rope  attached  to  the  arm,  which,  when  pulled, 
rings  a  bell.  Should  the  person  revive,  the  bell  would  thus 
give  notice  to  one  who  is  always  in  waiting.  When  we 
entered,  there  was  only  one  body,  which  was  that  of  a  beau- 
tiful little  girl,  who  had  died  with  a  smile  on  her  lips.  How 


114  THE    CAMPO    SANTO. 


I  wished  that  the  bell  would  ring.  How  pleasant  it  would 
have  been  to  have  seen  that  death-smile  changed  for  one  of 
life  and  light. 

At  the  end  of  the  room  lay  the  corpse  of  a  girl  of  eighteen. 
The  body  was  extremely  emaciated,  and  the  long  black  hair 
which  hung  loosely  over  the  face  and  breast,  gave  it  a 
strange,  witch-like  aspect.  Yet  in  all  we  saw,  there  was 
nothing  to  harrow  up  the  feelings,  nothing  to  produce  that 
fear  of  death  and  the  grave  which  is  so  usual  an  attendant 
upon  such  scenes.  There  were  here  none  of  those  "  strange 
devices  by  which  man  has  rendered  death  horrible  and  the 
grave  loathsome." 

Pleasant  and  cool  upon  the  soul  rest  the  memories  of  those 
gone  before,  when  to  the  eye  of  sense  there  speaks  nothing  to 
remind  us  of  the  decay  of  those  forms  which  we  once  almost 
identified  with  the  souls  which  dwelt  within  them ;  but 
pleasanter  far  is  it  when  we  see  the  grave  covered  with  em- 
blems which  speak  only  of  hope  and  a  blessed  immortality. 
Many  such  I  noticed  among  the  bright  flowery  walks  which 
here  led  us  among  the  homes  of  the  departed.  One  Latin 
inscription  spoke  of  the  dead  as  a  root  planted  in  Earth  to 

blossom  in  Heaven,  while  another  simply  stated  that  

was  born  on  a  certain  day  and  rejoined  the  angels  a  few 
months  afterwards. 

It  was  with  pleasant  feelings  that  we  left  this  burying- 
ground.  A  thousand  gentle  thoughts,  a  thousand  .tender 
associations  were  awakened  by  the  beautiful  death-memorials 
which  lay  around.  Von  Schwartz,  who  had  not  spoken 
during  the  excursion,  was  evidently  in  a  revery.  Turning  to 
me  at  last,  he  remarked,  "  When  I  visit  such  a  place,  T  can 


THE    IMITATOR.  115 


almost  regret  that  I  have  no  friend  buried  here,  that  I  may 
the  more  fully  develop  that  deep  spiritual  melancholy  which 
such  scenes  excite." 

"  Such  a  reflection  as  that,"  I  replied,  "  though  Ger- 
man to  the  last  degree,  is  derived  from  the  worse  and 
not  the  better  part  of  your  philosophy,  for  depend  upon 
it,  that  no  occurrence  which  can  truly  excite  regret 
should  ever  be  recurred  to  for  the  sake  of  exciting  mere 
poetic  feeling." 

"  You  are  right,"  he  replied.  "  Vergiss  die  treuen 
Todten  nicht.  Let  us  go." 


»SI1    I  M  I  S  A  S®  a. 

FROM     THE     G  £.  R  M  A  N  . 

AN  arrow  from  a  bow  just  shot, 

Flew  upwards  to  heaven's  canopy, 
And  cried,  with  pompous  self-conceit, 

To  the  King  Eagle,  scornfully : 
"  Look  here  !  I  am  as  high  as  thou, 

And,  toward  the  sun,  even  higher  sail ! " 
The  eagle  smiled,  and  said,    "  Oh  fool, 

What  do  thy  borrowed  plumes  avail  ? 
By  others'  strength  thou  dost  ascend, 
But  by  thyself  dost — downward  tend." 


116  OUR   LITTLE    SON. 


8Wa    XISXS3    30V, 

WITHII.  our  quiet  nest  at  home 

We  have  a  little  son  ; 
Five  smiling  years  have  passed  away 

Since  his  young  life  begun. 
Five  smiling  years  !     Brief,  happy  time ! 

So  fleet  have  moved  the  hours — 
So  light  our  steps — we've  only  seemed 

To  tread  among  the  flowers. 

When  day  declines,  and  evening  shades 

Come  stealing  soft  and  slow ; 
And  star-rays  in  the  dusky  sky 

But  dimly  come  and  go  ; 
From  care  and  thought  and  business  free, 

I  homeward  turn  my  feet — 
Oh  !  how  the  absence  is  repaid 

When  that  dear  boy  I  meet. 

I  do  not  know  that  other  eyes 

Would  linger  o'er  his  face ; 
Or  find  on  brow,  or  cheek,  or  lip 

A  single  winning  grace  ; 
And  yet,  it  would  be  strange,  I  owu, 

If  other  eyes  'could  see 
No  beauty  in  iiis  countenance, 

So  beautiful  to  me. 


OUR   LITTLE    SON.  117 


To  us  his  face  is  loveliness — 

There  sweet  expressions  blend  ; 
There  thoughts  look  upwards ;  and  on  these 

Affection's  smiles  attend. 
A  picture  in  our  hearts  he  lives, 

Bound  by  love's  golden  frame ; 
And  love  has  given  the  precious  boy 

A  fitly  chosen  name. 

Oh  !  could  we  keep  our  darling  one, 

As  innocent  as  now  ; 
As  free  from  lines  of  care  and  pain 

His  smoothly  polished  brow, — 
As  free  from  evil  every  throb 

His  joyous  pulses  fling ; 
And  free  each  thought  that  upwaid  soars 

On  mind's  expanding  wing ! 

0  Thou,  who  lovest  every  one — 

Whose  face  their  angels  see — 
The  children  thou  hast  given  to  us, 

Hold,  hold  them  near  to  Thee ! 
If  ever,  in  their  future  years 

Their  feet  aside  should  stray, 
Oh,  lead  them  gently  back  again, 

And  keep  them  in  Thy  way. 

r.  s.  A. 


118  NIGHTS    IN   THE    OLD    ALMSHOUSE. 


[THE  following  narrative  is  supposed  to  be  related  by  one 
whose  mother  died  of  a  broken  heart  when  he  was  but  eleven 
years  of  age.  After  she  was  laid  in  the  grave,  there  was  no 
one  to  care  for  him  but  his  drunken  father,  who  had  become 
so  debased  as  scarcely  to  retain  any  truly  human  feelings. 
He  sold  the  bed  upon  which  his  wife  had  slept,  gave  up  the 
room  she  had  occupied,  and  with  his  little  son,  it  being  sum- 
mer-time, went  out  into  the  woods  to  sleep  at  night.  We 
give  only  a  fragment  from  a  long  and  painfully-interesting 
history.] 

At  first,  I  could  not  sleep  for  fear,  all  alone  as  we  were  in 
the  woods.  And  often,  after  I  had  fallen  into  a  dose,  would 
I  be  awakened  by  the  noise  of  the  wind  rustling  through  the 
trees.  My  father  always  slept  soundly.  After  a  while,  as  I 
became  more  accustomed  to  it,  I  could  sleep  as  well  in  the 
woods  as  any  where  else. 

I  remember  one  beautiful  summer-night  we  went  out  into 
the  woods  about  eleven  o'clock,  my  father  so  much  in  Hquoi 
that  I  had  to  lead  him.  Our  usual  place  of  sleeping  was  just 
within  the  enclosure  of  Col.  Howard's  garden,  on  the  side 
next  to  the  city,  (Baltimore,)  and  close  to  the  small  stream 
that  flowed  from  the  stone  spring-house  a  little  west  of  the 
garden.  With  much  difficulty  I  got  him  over  the  fence,  and 


NIGHTS    IN    THE    OLD    ALMSHOUSE.  119 

we  laid  ourselves  down  on  our  grassy  bed.  My  father  was 
soon  asleep,  and  snoring  loudly.  After  a  while  I  got  into  a 
doze  from  which  I  awakened,  or  appeared  to  awake,  in,  I 
suppose,  something  like  half  an  hour.  It  looked  unusually 
light,  and  I  raised  my  head  to  see  what  caused  it.  Within  a 
few  feet  of  me,  was  a  female  figure.  She  was  very  beautiful, 
and  a  soft  light  shone  out  from  her  in  all  directions.  I  knew 
her  to  be  my  mother,  in  a  moment.  Her  face  was  sad  and 
pale,  but  there  was  something  heavenly  in  its  expression. 
She  fixed  her  mild  eyes  upon  me  long  and  sorrowfully,  and 
there  was  a  look  of  warning  in  her  countenance.  I  did  not  at 
that  moment  feel  afraid,  but  sprang  to  my  feet,  and  called, 
'  Mother  ! '  Instantly  she  faded  from  my  sight,  and  all  was 
darkness.  Clouds  had  covered  the  sky,  and  a  low  wind  mur- 
mured among  the  trees,  rustled  through  the  long  grass,  and 
stole  about  me  cold  and  chillingly.  Greatly  frightened,  I 
crept  close  to  my  father,  who  still  slept  soundly,  shut  my 
eyes,  and  lay  trembling  with  a  strange  fear,  until  I  again  fell 
asleep.  I  do  not  know  how  long  it  was  before  I  awakened, 
but  I  was  aroused  by  a  stunning  roar,  and  found  that  the  rain 
was  pouring  down  in  torrents.  I  had  only  got  my  eyes  fairly 
open,  when  the  whole  heaven  seemed  to  be  in  a  single  blaze 
of  light,  and  then  came  a  peal  of  thunder  which  made  the 
very  earth  tremble  under  my  feet.  My  father  was  also  now 
wide  awake,  and  we  sought  the  temporary  shelter  of  a  large 
tree,  guided  by  the  almost  incessant  flashes  of  lightning. 
Soon,  however,  the  leaves  no  longer  retained  the  large  drops 
that  fell  upon  them,  and  we  were  drenched  to  the  skin.  The 
storm  continued  for  more  than  an  hour,  with  frightful  vio- 
lence. I  never  felt  so  awful  in  my  life.  The  tremendous 


120  '     NIGHTS    IN    THE    OLD    ALMSHOUSE. 

jarring  and  rattling  of  the  thunder — the  almost  incessant 
blazing  out  of  the  lightning  :  and  the  roaring  of  the  wind 
among  the  trees,  were  such  as  I  had  never  heard  nor  seen. 
To  those  who  were  closely  sheltered  in  their  houses,  that  was 
an  awful  night ;  but  to  us  who  were  all  alone  in  the  woods,  it 
was  terrible  indeed.  It  was  daylight  ere  the  storm  abated. 
When  I  could  distinguish  my  father's  face,  I  saw  that  it  was 
very  pale,  and  that  he  trembled  in  every  limb.  Slowly  we 
left  our  home  in  the  woods — it  was  the  only  place  where  we 
could  lay  our  heads — and  drenched  with  rain,  sought  our 
way  to  the  city,  to  pick  up  something  to  eat  and  drink. 
Dry  clothes  we  had  none,  for  our  wardrobe  we  carried  on 
our  backs.  While  my  father  waited  around  the  corner  of  a 
street,  I  went  into  the  kitchen  of  the  Golden  Horse  Tavern, 
and  got  a  pupply  of  cold  bread  and  meat.  A  fresh  loaf  of 
bread  I  begged  at  a  baker's  ;  this  we  sold  for  liquor,  and 
then  went  back  to  the  woods  to  devour  our  breakfast.  After 
this  we  parted,  my  father  to  lounge  in  a  grog-shop,  and  I  to 
pick  up  a  few  coppers,  if  possible.  We  met  at  dinner-time. 
I  had  eleven  pence.  This  we  made  go  as  far  as  possible. 
Six  cents  worth  of  liquor  satisfied  my  father's  thirst ;  while 
three  cents  worth  of  cakes  and  three  cents  worth  of  crackers, 
checked  the  gnawing  of  our  appetites.  We  then  went  back 
to  the  woods. 

While  sitting  on  the  grass,  under  a  tree,  my  father  told 
me  that  he  had  got  a  room  in  the  old  Poor  House,  which  was 
vacant,  the  inmates  having  been  removed  to  their  palace-home 
at  Calverton.  Here,  he  said,  we  could  sleep  at  night  and 
not  care  for  the  storms.  And  it  would  be  a  shelter  on  Sun- 
days, when  some  of  our  favorite  haunts  were  closed. 


NIGHTS    IN    THE    OLD    ALMSHOUSE.  121 

I,  of  course,  had  nothing  to  say  in  opposition,  and  so  out 
wo  went  to  the  Poor  House  to  inspect  the  premises,  and 
choose  among  its  many  deserted  chambers  one  that  we  might 
call  our  home.  I  had  never  before  been  within  this  spacious, 
but  time-worn  building.  As  we  went  up  the  broad  avenue, 
entered  the  gate,  and  stood  beneath  the  trees  that  threw  their 
broad  shadows  upon  us,  I  felt  indeed  the  silent  desolation  of 
the  place.  But  a  few  months  before,  hundreds  of  human 
beings  were  here ;  now,  we  alone  thought  and  felt  where  thou- 
sands had  lived  and  moved  and  passed  away  forever.  We 
did  not  linger  long  to  view  the  premises  ;  for,  whatever  either 
of  us  thought  or  felt,  we  wasted  no  words  on  our  impression, 
but  pushed  our  way  up  the  broad  staircase  and  entered  the 
desolate  halls,  which  echoed  and  re-echoed  long,  and  it  did 
seem  to  me,  mournfully,  to  our  tread.  From  chamber  to 
chamber  we  passed  on,  first  through  one  extended  wing  of  the 
building,  and  then  through  the  other,  with  what  might  truly 
be  called  '  idle  curiosity.'  Then  from  attic  to  cellar  we 
wandered,  until  we  knew  every  room,  and  every  cell  in  the 
vast  building.  It  was  indeed  a  lonely  place.  Standing 
separate  as  it  did,  the  avenue  of  entrance  reaching  west,  and 
remote  from  any  dwellings,  it  seemed  to  me,  as  if  we  were 
almost  the  last  of  our  race  ;  as  if  some  terrible  pestilence  had 
swept  away  the  busy  millions,  and  that  we  alone  were  left. 

After  due  examination,  we  chose  a  comfortable  room  in  the 
centre  or  main  building,  which  had  been  appropriated  for  the 
use  of  the  Keeper  and  his  family,  and  taking  the  floor  for 
our  bed,  arid  our  hands  for  our  pillows,  we  laid  ourselves 
down  to  sleep  away  the  afternoon.  It  was  nearly  sundown 
when  we  aroused  ourselves.  The  trees  threw  into  our  room 


122  NIGHTS    IN    THE    OLD    ALMSHOUSE. 


a  deep  shadow,  and  made  it  look  almost  like  night.  I  felt  a 
fear  creeping  over  me,  and  thought  that  I  would  rather  be  in 
the  woods  and  risk  the  storms,  than  sleep  in  so  desolate  a 
place.  The  strange  vision  of  my  mother,  also  occurred  to 
mj  mind,  and  I  looked  timidly  around,  almost  expecting  to  see 
her  pale,  sad  face,  turned  upon  me.  We  descended  from 
our  room  and  made  our  way  quickly  towards  the  city,  my 
father  eager  to  quench  his  burning  thirst,  and  I  to  get  some 
food,  for  I  felt  very  hungry.  At  the  corner  of  Howard  and 
Franklin  streets  we  parted — he  to  lounge  in  a  certain  grog- 
shop, while  I  endeavored  to  raise  a  little  change.  It  was 
late,  and  I  was  exceedingly  put  to  it  for  some  successful  ex- 
periment. At  length  a  happy  thought  struck  me,  and  I 
went  into  a  drug-store  in  Market  street,  and  called  for  six 
cents  worth  of  the  cream  of  tartar.  It  was  soon  weighed  out 
and  handed  to  me.  Just  at  that  moment  a  person  came  in, 
and  soon  after  two  or  three  more.  The  young  man  in  the 
store  was  of  course  soon  busily  engaged  in  serving  them.  I 
stood  still  at  the  counter,  with  my  little  package  in  my  hand, 
waiting  with  seeming  great  patience.  After  all  were  gone,  I 
still  remained,  standing  there,  and  at  last  the  clerk  asked 
me  if  I  wanted  any  thing  else. 

a  No,  sir,"  said  I,  "  I  am  only  waiting  for  my  change." 

"  Your  change,  oh  !  what  did  you  give  me  ?  " 

"  A  half  dollar,  sir." 

He  looked  at  me  for  some  moments,  and  then  said, 

u  Are  you  right  sure  1 " 

"Oh  yes,  sir,"  said  I  with  all  apparent  ingenuoasness.  *  I  gave 
you  a  half  dollar  just  as  that  girl  came*in  for  the  castor  oil  and 
you  put  it  in  the  drawer,  and  forgot  to  give  me  the  change," 


NIGHTS    IN    THE    OLD    ALMSHOUSE.  123 

a  Well,  I  am  sure  I  did  forget  all  about  it,"  said  he,  as  he 
gave  me  forty-four  cents  change. 

I  walked  quietly  out  of  the  shop,  but  as  soon  as  I  was 
round  the  corner  I  threw  the  cream  of  tartar  into  the  gutter, 
and  ran  off  as  fast  as  I  could  to  join  my  father. 

He  was  delighted  with  the  large  supply  I  had  raised,  and 
when  I  informed  him  of  the  trick  to  which  I  had  resorted,  he 
patted  me  on  the  head,  and  said  I  was  a  sad  dog — and  then 
laid  himself  back  to  enjoy  a  hearty  laugh  at  the  joke. 

"  Money  is  too  scarce  now,  Charley,"  said  he,  "  to  afford  to 
buy  any  thing  to  eat  with  it.  You  can  easily  get  enough 
cold  victuals.  So  do  you  go  out  and  get  something  for  us  to 
eat,  and  we  will  go  home  and  take  our  supper  in  our  new 
lodgings.  We  will  take  a  bottle  of  gin  along  and  some  beer, 
and  fare  sumptuously." 

"  But  what  shall  we  do  for  a  light,  father  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Sure  enough,  that  is  a  question." 

"  Suppose  we  buy  a  candle — we  can  get  one  for  two  cents." 

"  But  we  must  have  a  candle  every  night,  and  candles  will 
cost  two  cents  a  piece.  That  will  never  do.  And  we  will 
have  to  get  matches.  Besides,  7  don't  believe  the  Trustees 
would  allow  a  candle  to  be  taken  into  the  building.  Any 
how,  there  is  no  great  use  for  a  candle.  We  know  the  way 
in  well  enough.  We  never  had  a  candle  in  the  woods,  and 
now  because  we  have  got  better  lodging  we  are  not  content 
without  additional  luxuries.  It  would  be  a  useless  expense, 
Charley,  and  we  will  not  incur  it." 

Much  against  my  will,  I  had  to  consent  to  this  mode  of 
reasoning.  It  was  not  long  before  I  filled  my  handkerchief 
with  bread  and  meat,  at  the  kitchens  of  sundry  benevolent 


124  NIGHTS    IN    THE    OLD    ALMSHOUSE. 

individuals,  and  called  for  my  father,  who  was  already  much 
intoxicated.  After  pulling  him  by  the  arm  and  coaxing  him 
a  good  deal  I  got  him  under  way,  and  towards  ten  o'clock  we 
turned  into  Madison  from  Howard  street.  Here  commenced 
the  lonely  part  of  our  journey.  The  huge  pile  of  buildings 
into  which  we  were  to  creep  like  thieves,  arose  gloomily  on 
the  right,  and  looked  the  very  picture  of  desolation.  My 
father  was  too  much  in  liquor  to  be  a  sensible  companion,  and 
I,  boy  as  I  was,  had  to  meet  the  imagined  horrors  of  such  a 
lonely,  deserted  place,  almost  companionless.  Slowly  we 
wound  round  the  enclosure,  until  we  gained  the  north-west 
front  of  the  building,  and  then  kept  on  up  the  broad  avenue, 
until  we  were  once  more  beneath  the  trees  that  threw  a 
shadow  dark  as  midnight  upon  the  porch  and  entrance  of  the 
house.  As  the  gate  swung  to  behind  us,  with  a  loud  noise  and 
the  jingling  of  a  chain  that  was  attached,  a  wild,  unearthly 
scream,  which  seemed  to  come  from  a  window  over  our  heads, 
thrilled  upon  my  ears.  I  almost  sunk  to  the  earth. 

"  What  is  that,  father  ? "  said  I,  in  a  hoarse,  tremulous 
whisper. 

But  he  was  too  far  gone  with  the  liquor  he  had  taken  to 
notice  it  as  any  thing  unusual.  I  stood  still,  and  so  did  he, 
for  his  motions  were  governed  by  my  own.  I  knew  not  what 
to  do  or  what  to  think.  The  wild,  awful  scream  was  still 
ringing  in  my  ears,  and  the  strange  sight  I  had  seen  but  the 
night  before,  was  still  before  me  in  imagination.  After  a  few 
minutes  of  indecision,  I  pulled  my  father  towards  the  steps 
that  lead  into  the  building,  which  were  indistinctly  visible  in 
the  darkness.  As  he  attempted  to  set  his  foot  upon  the  first 
of  these,  he  stumbled  and  fell  upon  them  with  a  loud  noise 


NIGHTS    IN    THE   OLD    ALMSHOUSE.  125 

Instantly  that  piercing  scream  was  repeated,  then  there  was 
a  rustling  among  the  branches  of  the  trees  over  our  heads, 
and  a  large,  dark-looking  bird,  swept  away  with  a  slight  noise 
as  its  wings  beat  the  still  air. 

I  recovered  my  senses  ir  a  moment,  greatly  relieved, 
though  I  trembled  violently  fiom  head  to  foot.  I  knew  that 
I  had  been  frightened  by  a  a  screech  owl."  I  now  endeavored 
to  get  my  father  on  his  feet,  and  after  some  difficulty,  we 
were  safely  lodged  in  our  own  room.  We  were  at  home. 
One  long  draught  at  the  bottle  sufficed  him,  and  he  laid  him- 
self down,  and  was  soon  snoring  loudly.  For  my  own  part, 
I  had  little  appetite  for  the  bread  and  meat  I  had  brought 
with  me,  and  following  my  father's  example,  I  took  a  long 
draught,  and  laid  myself  down  upon  our  hard  bed.  Happily 
for  me,  I  was  soon  sound  asleep,  and  did  not  wake  until  the 
sun  was  shining  in  at  the  window. 

The  burning  thirst  of  my  father  was  quenched  at  the  pump 
in  the  yard,  and  he  then  took  a  dram  from  the  liquor  in  our 
bottle.  We  now  made  a  breakfast  from  the  cold  meat  and 
bread  which  I  had  begged  the  night  before,  and  after  sitting 
about  until  towards  nine  o'clock,  went  into  town  to  act  over, 
with  various  modifications,  the  scenes  of  many  previous  days. 
Thus  we  passed  our  time,  for  some  months. 

I  was  often  greatly  frightened  in  the  old  Poor  House,  by 
strange  noises  and  stranger  fancies,  but  never  more  so  than 
on  one  dark  night  when,  failing  to  find  my  father  in  any 
direction,  I  bent  my  steps  for  home  (!)  a  little  after  ten 
o'clock,  supposing  that  he  had  gone  out  there.  Every  step 
which  I  took,  after  leaving  Howard  street,  increased  my  fear, 
and  when  "  entered  the  dark  avenue  which  led  up  to  the 


126  NIGHTS    IN    THE    OLD    ALMSHOUSE. 

dreary  looking  mass  of  buildings,  the  cold  chills  crept  over 
my  whole  body.  When  I  got  as  far  as  the  gate,  I  remem- 
bered every  frightful  tale  I  had  ever  heard,  and  was  so  sick 
with  fear,  that  I  had  almost  to  hold  myself  up.  I  stood  with 
my  hand '  on  the  gate  for  a  long  time,  irresolute  whether  to 
enter,  go  back,  or  remain  where  I  was.  At  last  I  mustered 
up  courage  to  call  my  father,  who  I  thought  might  be  up 
stairs.  I  gave  one  loud  cry  of  "  Father ! '"  and  paused,  with 
a  wild  beating  at  my  heart.  My  voice  sounded  strange  and 
awful  to  my  ears,  as  it  rang  cut  in  that  lonely  and  deserted 
spot.  There  was  no  answer,  but  I  thought  I  heard  a  motion 
in  the  trees  over  my  head. 

After  waiting  for  some  minutes  until  I  could  feel  re-assured, 
I  again  called  in  a  louder  voice,  "  FATHER  ! "  The  bird  of 
night  replied  to  me  in  a  shrill,  unearthly  scream,  which  so 
startled  me  that  I  almost  sunk  to  the  ground.  But  I  was  re- 
assured in  a  moment,  and  the  consciousness  that  there  was 
any  thing  living  near  me  restored  a  portion  of  my  fast  fleet- 
ing courage.  I  now  waited  for  full  half  an  hour,  at  the  gate, 
and  as  my  father  did  not  come,  I  began  to  think  that  perhaps 
he  had  come  home  early,  sick,  and  was  now  in  our  room  suf- 
fering, or  perchance  dying.  The  moment  this  thought 
glanced  across  my  mind,  I  summoned  up  all  the  resolution  I 
had  and  opening  the  gate,  glided  in  and  up  the  stairs  with  a 
quick  step,  yet  fearing  every  moment  that  my  eyes  would 
meet  some  terrible  apparition.  When  I  got  into  our  room, 
and  had  felt  all  round  it  in  the  dark,  and  was  fully  conscious 
that  my  father  was  not  there,  I  sat  down  upon  the  floor,  per- 
fectly overcome  with  fear.  To  be  there  alone,  at  the  dead 
hour  of  the  night,  a  mere  boy,  in  that  deserted  place,  was  a 


TO  *         *.  127 

reflection  that  paralyzed  me.  What  I  suffered  then  and 
there,  I  can  never  describe.  From  a  state  of  stupid  fear  I 
was  aroused  by  the  thought  of  my  father.  Where  was  he  ? — 
how  was  he  ?  He  must  be  sick  or  dead.  Filled  with  this 
idea,  I  crept  softly  down  the  stairs  as  though  fearful  of  dis- 
turbing the  spirits  of  the  place,  and  reaching  the  yard, 
opened  the  gate  and  ran  with  feet  winged  by  fear  until  I  got 
into  the  main  road.  Just  there  I  met  my  father,  who  came 
staggering  along  too  drunk  to  know  little  more  than  that  I 
was  his  son.  What  a  load  was  removed  from  my  heart ! 


;On  her  aslring  the  author  to  make  choice  of  a  gemmed -ring  for   cer  ? 
BY     JOHN     H.     HEWITT. 

WERE  I  born  to  repose  in  the  depths  of  the  sea, 
I  then  might  make  choice  of  a  min'ral  for  thee, 
But  no,  Madame  Nature  hath  ordered  that  I 
Should  not  bask  in  the  ocean  nor  soar  in  the  sky. 

But  list  to  my  lay.     Once  the  queen  of  the  waters 
Held  a  meeting  of  all  of  old  Ocean's  fair  daughters  : 
Her  throne  was  of  coral  and  studded  around 
With  the  loveliest  gems  that  her  nymphs  ever  found. 

4  List,  maids  of  the  ocean  !?  the  smiling  Queen  cried, 
*  The  shores  of  the  deep  must  be  searched  far  and  wide ; 


128  TO  *  *  *  *. 

For  she  who  will  show  me  the  loveliest  gem, 
Shall  win  her  reward  from  my  own  diadem.' 

'Twas  said — and  while  strains  of  soft  music  soared  rovnd. 
The  zone  of  each  Nereid  was  quickly  unbound, 
And  each  garment  stream'd  out  on  the  tide  light  and  iree, 
As  she  searched  every  grotto  and  cave  of  the  sea. 

Some  brought  the  bright  emerald  translucent  and  green. 
And  some  showered  sapphires  before  the  fair  Queen, 
While  others  brought  rubie?  and  garnets  to  view — 
But,  no }  though  all  lovely,  still  would  they  not  do. 

At  length  came  the  diamond  as  pure  and  as  bright 
As  the  spirit  that  bore  it,  but  scarcely  as  light, 

*  Ah  !  no,'  said  the  Queen — *  'tis  too  rich,  and  I'm  told 
Though  it  shed  brilliant  beams  yet  the  radiance  is  cold.1 

The  next  fairy  nymph  brought  a  gem  dark  as  night, 
'Twas  a  jet  undelighting,  though  costly  and  bright. 
1  Cast  it  down  the  abyss  !'  cried  they  all  in  a  breath, 
k  'Tis  a  sorrowful  gem  and  the  emblem  of  death.' 

Soon  far,  far  a  spirit  was  seen  through  the  deep 
Adown  the  blue  waters  with  fleetness  to  sweep } 
Her  form  was  transparent — her  silvery  curls 
Were  decked  uLh  a  tiar  of  the  loveliest  of  pearls. 

*  Here,  here  !'  cried  the  spirit,  '  in  coral-girt  bowers, 
This  pearl  ha¥e  I  plucked  from  a  bed  of  sea-flowers; 
'Tis  the  tear-drop  of  virtue,  and  blest  be  the  girl 
Whose  heart  is  as  taintless  and  pure  as  a  pearl.' 

The  fair  sovereign  smiled,  and  the  costliest  gem 
She  could  find  midst  the  crowd  of  her  bright  diadem, 
She  gave  as  a  meed  to  the  nymph.     Then,  dear  girl, 
l*t  thy  ring  be  bedecked  with  simplicity's  pearl. 


SILENT    LOVE.  129 


J'rom  the  German  of  Caroline  Pi.ch.ler. 
BY        HARRIET        MANSFIELD, 

THE  wife  of  the  President  Von  Almstein  entered  the 
chamber  of  her  daughters  to  announce  to  them  that  they  were 
invited  to  a  grand  ball  at  the  foreign  ambassador's,  and  laid 
on  their  table  the  latest  number  of  the  Journal  of  Fashion, 
from  which  to  select  their  costumes.  With  a  radiant  coun- 
tenance, Caroline,  the  youngest  sister,  sprang  up  from  her 
work,  eagerly,  took  the  book  and  turned  over  the  leaves, 
while  with  joyous  volubility  she  admired  some  of  the  draw- 
ings, found  fault  with  others,  and  finally  selected  the  one 
which  best  pleased  her  fancy.  Her  elder  sister  sat  quietly 
beside  her. 

"  You  say  nothing,  Henrietta,"  said  the  President's  wife, 
somewhat  displeased,  "  are  you  not  glad?" 

"  You  know,  dear  mother,  that  I  do  not  love  such  enter- 
tainments ;  and  if  you  would  allow  me — " 

"  To  stay  at  home — is  it  not  so  ?  But  this  will  not  do. 
You  must  go  with  us.  I  can  easily  understand  that  with 
your  face  you  do  not  like  to  appear  by  the  side  of  Caroline  ; 
but  for  this  very  reason  you  must  go  with  us,  and  be  dressed 
as  handsomely  as  she  is.  I  will  not  let  the  world  say  I  make 


130       <  SILENT    LOVE. 


a  difference  between  my  children,  and  leave  you  in  the-  back- 
ground because  you  are  ugly." 

She  left  the  room.  She  thought  by  these  means  to  show 
the  world  that  she  did  not  prefer  the  beautiful  Caroline  to  her 
sister  ;  but  the  world  was  not  deceived.  From  her  earliest 
childhood,  Henrietta  had  been  the  repulsed,  neglected,  child 
and  her  mother  felt  herself  quite  relieved  when  about  ten 
years  before,  her  sister,  the  widow  of  a  general,  had  begged 
to  have  the  little  girl,  who,  as  she  had  no  children  of  her  own, 
might  afford  her  companionship  amid  the  solitude  of  a  coun- 
try life.  There  Henrietta  was  brought  up  with  carefulness 
and  affection.  Her  aunt,  an  excellent  woman,  cultivated  her 
active  mind  and  her  feeling  heart  upon  the  highest  principles. 
She  sought  to  make  amends  for  the  absence  of  outward 
charms,  by  the  superiority  of  inward  attractions.  Henrietta 
knew  well  that  she  was  not  handsome ;  but  in  the  country,  as 
the  niece  of  a  lady  so  universally  respected,  as  a  girl  who 
even  without  this  advantage,  might  be  loved  and  esteemed  for 
her  own  sake,  it  never  occurred  to  her  that  the  want  of  beauty 
was  so  great  a  fault,  so  powerful  a  preventive  to  success  or 
happiness  in  the  world.  The  aunt  died,  and  the  president 
brought  his  daughter  home. 

Here  she  now  experienced,  with  a,feeling  of  deep  bitterness, 
the  high  value  placed  upon  a  gift  of  nature  which  depends  so 
little  on  ourselves,  and  has  no  influence  upon  our  true  merit. 
When  she  appeared  with  her  beautiful  sister,  no  one  took 
notice  of  her,  no  one  spoke  to  her  ;  and  wounded  and  repuls- 
ed by  this  treatment,  she  forgot  or  disdained  those  attractions 
that  might  have  drawn  towards  her  the  attentions  of  a  better 
class  of  nr-n.  But  she  saw  that  even  they  fallowed  the  lovely 


SILENT    LOVE.  131 


enchantment.  She  remained  quiet,  forgotten,  alone,  in  the 
midst  of  brilliant  circles,  and  the  ungentle  treatment  of  her 
mother  increased  the  deep  sorrow  which  often  made  her  shed 
burning  tears  over  the  loss  of  her  excellent  aunt,  and  the 
lovely  period  of  her  earlier  youth. 

Caroline,  although  adored  by  her  parents,  and  overwhelm- 
ed with  flattery  by  the  world,  had  still  preserved  her  good 
feeling.  She  loved  her  sister  tenderly ;  but  even  she  was  not 
quite  happy.  The  wishes  of  her  father,  a  sort  of  family  ar- 
rangement, destined  her  to  be  the  bride  of  a  relative,  whom 
she  had  known  only  as  a  child,  and  of  whom  for  ten  years  she 
had  known  nothing  further  than  that  he  was  a  major,  a  very 
handsome  man  and  a  brave  soldier.  Caroline  was  not  refined 
nor  cultivated  enough  to  think  of  sympathy  of  mind  or 
character,  but  she  trembled  at  the  thought  of  giving  her  hand 
to  a  man  who  might  not  be  in  any  way  agreeable  to  her. 
The  girls  wept  together  and  tried  to  console  each  other,  and 
mutual  sorrow  served  only  to  unite  them  more  closely. 

The  President  Von  Almstein  was  the  last  male  scion  of  the 
younger  branch  of  his  family,  which  by  a  singular  accident 
possessed  all  the  wealth  and  property  of  the  elder  branch. 
His  grandfather  had  two  sons  by  two  wives,  whom,  as  well  as 
their  mothers,  he  loved  with  a  very  different  degree  of  tender- 
ness. Domestic  troubles  and  his  own  inclinations  led  the 
eldest  son,  after  the  death  of  his  mother,  to  become  a 
soldier,  in  which  character  he  obtained  that  love  and  esteem 
fvhich  had  been  denied  him  in  his  father's  house.  He  rose 
by  his  own  merit  to  the  rank  of  general,  but  when  yet  in  the 
bloom  of  manhood,  hardship,  fatigue,  and  dangerous  wounds 
had  so  enfeebled  his  health,  that  he  looked  forward  either  to 


132  SILENT    LOVE. 


a  speedy  death  or  a  miserable  old  age.  He  gave  up  all 
thoughts  of  happiness  arising  from  the  possession  of  a  wife 
and  family  and,  while  in  this  mood,  a  self-styled  friend  who 
was  in  reality  an  emissary  of  his  step-mother,  persuaded  him 
to  relinquish  his  property  to  his  younger  brother,  and  thus 
enable  him  to  maintain  the  honor  of  the  family.  The  general 
then  retired  to  a  small  estate  he  still  retained,  where  he  led  a 
calm  and  secluded  life.  But  amid  the  quiet  and  repose  of 
rural  life,  his  health  was  gradually  restored ;  existence  again 
became  dear  to  him ;  he  found  a  maiden  whose  beauty  and 
gentle  goodness  touched  his  heart,  and  who  was  willing  to 
share  his  fate  and  his  small  fortune.  His  eldest  son  followed 
his  father's  footsteps;  his  grandson,  the  major,  who  was  des- 
tined for  Caroline,  had  already  obtained  considerable  renown, 
and  the  president  was  extremely  anxious  to  bring  about  this 
alliance,  which  was  to  unite  the  two  branches  of  the  family, 
and  thus  restore  to  the  elder  branch  the  possession  of  that 
property  of  which  it  had  been  deprived  for  half  a  century. 

Caroline  sought  in  vain  to  turn  aside  her  father  from  the 
execution  of  a  plan  which  seemed  to  endanger  her  future  hap- 
piness ;  but  he  was  inflexible,  and  seemed  to  be  influenced  by 
some  weighty  reason  which  involved  his  own  tranquillity  and 
contentment. 

Thus  several  months  passed  away.  Towards  the  end  of 
the  next  autumn  the  president  received  news  that  the  major 
had  obtained  leave  of  absence  in  order  to  visit  the  city  and 
become  acquainted  with  his  future  bride.  Report  preceded 
him  and  announced  to  Caroline  and  the  other  ladies  of  the 
capital,  that  the  major  was  the  handsomest,  noblest  and 
bravest  of  officers,  and  many  anecdotes  were  related  to  prove 


SILENT    LOVE.  133 


his  valor  and  goodness.  It  was  he  who  had  once,  when 
almost  alone,  stormed  a  hostile  fortress,  and  at  the  risk  of  his 
own  life  protected  from  injury  and  borne  from  the  field  one 
of  the  enemy's  generals,  whom  he  had  wounded  and  taken 
prisoner ;  it  was  he  to  whom  a  village  that  had  been  fired 
owed  its  preservation  and  the  inhabitants  their  lives  and 
the  safety  of  their  property.  He  was  thus  a  topic  of  con- 
versation several  days  before  his  arrival,  and  although  it 
was  known  his  hand  was  promised,  this  did  not  prevent 
many  fair  damsels  from  laying  plans  for  the  capture  of  his 
heart. 

It  was  natural  that  Caroline  and  her  sister  should  antici- 
pate his  coming  with  eager  anxiety,  and  their  confidential 
conversation  turned  almost  entirely  upon  him.  One  evening 
a  numerous  circle  assembled  at  their  house,  when  the  doors 
were  suddenly  thrown  open,  and  a  young  man  entered  dress- 
ed in  uniform,  with  an  order  upon  his  breast.  He  had  a  fine 
manly  appearance  and  there  was  something  so  noble  in  his 
countenance  and  bearing,  that  it  involuntarily  detained  the 
eye  which  had  casually  fallen  upon  him.  With  modest  self- 
possession  he  approached  the  president  and  handed  him  a 
letter,  which  the  latter  had  no  sooner  opened  and  glanced  at, 
than  he  greeted  the  young  man  with  sincere  pleasure,  pre- 
senting him  to  his  wife  and  the  whole  circle  as  his  nephew. 
Major  Von  Almstein. 

Caroline  blushed  up  to  her  temples.  This,  then,  was  the 
man  to  whom  she  was  to  be  indissolubly  united  !  His  appear- 
ance, at  least,  was  not  unpleasing,  and  she  often  stole  a 
glance  at  this  object  of  universal  attention,  while  her  mother 
looked  round  in  triumph,  as  if  to  say:  "this  phoenix,  of 


134  SILENT    LOVE. 

whom  report  has  said  so  much,  and  whose  looks  promise  more, 
is  ours,  is  the  property  of  the  admired  Caroline ! " 

Henrietta's  eyes  had  also  been  directed  towards  him,  and 
a  trembling  feeling  pervaded  her  whole  frame.  Here  was  her 
realization  of  a  perfect  man.  How  often  had  an  ideal  being, 
with  just  such  features  appeared  to  her  silent  dreams  !  She 
turned  pale,  for  this  man  was  her  sister's  betrothed  lover ; 
and  while  others  joyfully  gathered  round  him,  she  quietly 
withdrew,  with  a  deep  wound  in  her  heart.  When  in  her 
solitary  chamber,  she  gave  a  sad  glance  at  her  mirror,  and 
tears  stood  in  her  eyes.  She  determined  to  avoid  this  danger- 
ous being  as  much  as  possible,  that  the  arrow  might  not 
pierce  her  heart  too  deeply. 

The  major  was  soon  at  home  in  the  house  of  his  relatives, 
and  every  thing  seemed  to  go  on  exactly  as  they  wished. 
Caroline's  appearance  had  at  first  attracted  him,  and  her 
natural  amiability  held  him  fast.  He  soon  found  that  she 
was  deficient  in  mental  culture,  but  he  trusted,  as  she  was  so 
young,  he  might  remedy  this  neglect  when  she  became  his 
wife.  He  perceived  in  her  too  great  a  fondness  for  dress  and 
dissipation,  but  he  flattered  himself  that  when  she  had  learned 
to  know  and  love  him  truly,  love  and  domestic  happiness 
would  make  her  ample  amends  for  the  loss  of  these  glittering 
pleasures.  Thus,  this  connexion,  at  which  his  whole  nature 
had  at  first  revolted,  gradually  lost  its  terrors,  and  he  re- 
conciled himself  to  the  idea  of  considering  Caroline  as  the 
future  companion  of  his  life.  He  had  no  passionate  feeling 
for  her,  she  was  not  indispensable  to  his  happiness ;  but  he 
felt  towards  her  an  affectionate  regard,  and  hoped  with  this 
feeling  his  married  life  might  be  happy. 


SILENT    LOVE.  135 


The  conduct  of  his  future  sister-in-law  seemed  to  him  very 
strange.  That  she  had  more  sense  and  cultivation,  and  more 
character  than  her  sister,  was  evident  from  the  few  conversa- 
tions he  had  forced  her  to  enter  into,  and  what  Caroline  told 
him  of  her  excellent  heart,  confirmed  the  opinion  he  had  him- 
se^  formed  of  her,  so  that  he  esteemed  her  highly  without 
knowing  her  well.  But  it  was  almost  impossible  for  him  to 
approach  her  more  nearly,  for  she  sedulously  avoided  him, 
and  did  every  thing  in  her  power  to  escape  being  with  him, 
and  especially  alone  with  him. 

Her  parents  noticed  this  behaviour  and  expostulated  with 
he>*  about  it.  She  tried  to  defend  herself  by  various  excuses, 
but  as  she  did  not  change  her  conduct,  they  were  at  length 
convinced  that  she  entertained  a  secret  hatred  towards  the 
m?.jor,  or  at  all  events  disliked  the  connexion,  because  the 
larger  portion  of  their  property  was  destined  to  Caroline, 
while  only  a  moderate  sum  was  secured  to  her. 

Such  a  supposition  wounded  Henrietta  deeply,  but  she  did 
not  attempt  to  disprove  it.  She  would  rather  have  suffered 
any  thing,  death  itself,  than  betray  her  unhappy  feeling  for  a 
maii  who  was  intended  for  her  sister,  and  was  so  well  con- 
tented with  his  prospects.  The  major  at  last  began  to 
believe  she  cherished  a  secret  prejudice  against  him,  and 
many  misunderstandings,  inevitable  under  such  circum- 
stances, many  hints  of  the  imprudent  mother  confirmed  him 
in  this  opinion. 

The  major's  leave  of  absence  had  now  expired;  it  was 

ho^ed  the  approaching  campaign  would  be  the  last,  and  the 

wedding  was  t^  take  place  as  soon  as  peace  was  proclaimed. 

ie  took  leave  of  his  betrothed  without  deep  grief,   though 


136  SILENT    LOVE. 


with  some  emotion,  received  the  blessing  of  her  parents,  and 
Henrietta's  silent  trembling  farewell,  and  departed. 

For  a  few  days,  Caroline  felt  sensibly  the  loss  of  her  plea- 
sant companion,  but  diverted  herself  afterwards  by  attending 
to  her  outfit  and  making  preparations  for  her  future  establish- 
ment. Henrietta  was  quiet  as  ever,  but  the  house,  the  world, 
seemed  empty  and  dead  to  her.  She  listened  tremblingly  to 
the  news  of  the  war  :  consulting  newspapers  and  maps  was 
her  favorite  occupation  :  she  changed  color  when  letters  came 
from  the  major,  and  was  evidently  anxious  when  they  were 
long  delayed.  Her  parents  who  had  never  understood  her, 
wrere  at  a  loss  to  account  for  this  ;  they  called  her  strange, 
ridiculous  :  at  length  became  used  to  her  peculiarities,  and 
let  them  pass  unnoticed.  This  was  all  she  wanted. 

Towards  spring,  Caroline  was  attacked  by  a  severe  ill- 
ness, which  increased  with  great  violence.  Henrietta  would 
not  leave  her  bedside  notwithstanding  the  danger  of  infection 
with  which  the  physician  threatened  her.  On  the  fifth  day, 
the  joyous,  blooming  Caroline  was  a  corpse.  Henrietta's 
grief  was  deep  and  abiding,  yet  it  was  in  her  affection  that 
the  bereaved  father  first  found  comfort.  Her  mother  was  in 
despair ;  the  death  of  her  darling  daughter  had  broken  her 
heart,  and  she  began  to  droop.  These  unhappy  tidings  were 
communicated  to  the  major ;  his  letter  bore  the  marks  of  the 
deepest  sympathy  and  true  sorrow,  but  no  sign  of  that  dis- 
traction which  the  death  of  the  woman  he  loves  must  produce 
in  the  heart  of  a  young  man. 

When  the  first  stupifying  effects  of  grief  were  over,  the 
president  spoke  of  his  plan  of  uniting  the  two  branches  of 
the  family  as  still  unchanged. 


SILENT    LOVE.  137 


"  We  have  still  a  daughter,"  he  at  length  said.  "  Henri- 
etta shall  take  Caroline's  place ;  the  estate  will  thus  be  un- 
divided and  return  again  to  the  elder  branch." 

Henrietta  was  present.  A  fever  seemed  to  run  through 
her  limbs.  Rapture  and  anguish — hope  and  sorrow,  alter- 
nated in  her  soul. 

c<t  Alas  ! ??  said  her  mother.  "  What  an  exchange  !  Leah 
for  Rachel ! » 

These  words  cut  Henrietta  to  the  heart.  Leah  for  Rachel ! 
She  tottered  as  if  falling  and  supported  herself  by  a  chair. 
It  was  not  the  unkind  allusion  of  her  mother,  but  the  convic- 
tion that  with  her  appearance  she  could  never  become  the  wife 
of  so  handsome  and  attractive  a  man,  without  drawing  upon 
herself  the  contempt  and  censure  of  the  whole  world,  and  see 
him  pining  away  at  her  side  from  chagrin  and  repentance — it 
was  this  that  now  seemed  painfully  clear  to  her  mind.  She 
resolved  to  resist  to  the  last  extremity,  rather  than  receive 
this  terrible  sacrifice,  which  only  a  regard  to  family  interest 
could  compel  him  to  make. 

All  her  refusals  were  of  no  avail.  A  letter  was  written  to 
the  major,  who  avoided  giving  an  answer  to  the  proposition ; 
saying  it  was  impossible  for  him,  so  soon  after  the  loss  of  his 
fir«t  love  to  think  of  any  second  alliance,  and-  begging  for 
delay  and  time  for  reflection.  This  was  enough  for  Henrietta. 
She  knew  now  all  she  needed  to  know,  to  render  her  earnest 
re::lution  still  more  irrevocable. 

In  a  few  weeks  her  mother  died  from  grief  for  the  loss  of 
her  daughter,  and  Henrietta  "persuaded  her  father  to  retire 
wli/Ii  her  to  one  of  his  estates,  for  he  had  remained  in  the 
citv  only  to  please  his  wife.  There  she  devoted  herself  with 


138  SILENT    LOVE. 


enthusiastic  affection  to  the  comfort  and  happiness  of  the 
only  loved  being  now  remaining  to  her,  and  the  president, 
who,  in  his  fashionable  marriage,  had  never  known  this  feel- 
ing, lived  anew  in  her  confiding  love,  and  seemed  nowise  dis- 
satisfied that  the  major  postponed  his  decision  still  longer, 
and  left  him  the  daughter  who  had  now  become  so  dear  to 
him.  But  Henrietta's  cruel  destiny  was  not  yet  weary  of 
aiming  at  her  heart.  Late  in  the  autumn,  while  engaged  in 
the  chase,  which  he  passionately  loved,  the  president  was 
thrown  from  his  horse  and  was  brought  home  to  the  castle, 
dying.  He  had  lost  his  speech,  and  Henrietta  felt  despair 
when  she  saw  the  signs,  the  intensely-anxious  looks,  with 
which  he  pointed  to  his  secretary,  and  which,  after  a  hundred 
attempts  she  could  not  understand  nor  explain.  He  died  in 
her  arms  a  few  hours  afterwards,  leaving  her  in  possession  of 
all  his  immense  property. 

Thus  bereaved  and  alone  in  the  wide  world,  she  was  for  a 
time  dead  to  every  pleasure — to  every  glad  and  happy  feel- 
ing ;  at  length  time  exercised  its  soothing  influence  upon  her, 
and  she  was  able  to  think  of  something  else  than  her  grief 
and  the  loss  of  her  loved  ones.  The  first  thing  was  to  break 
off  her  proposed  alliance  with  the  major,  and  restore  him  to 
perfect  freedom.  It  seemed  to  have  been  the  dearest  wish 
of  her  father  to  restore  the  property  to  the  elder  branch. 
This  should  be  done  in  part,  though  not  as  he  had  intended  it. 

She  wrote  to  the  major :  she  did  not  conceal  from  him  the 
little  inclination  she  knew  he  felt  for  her;  she  described  the 
high  requisites  she  thought  necessary  for  a  happy  marriage, 
and  for  that  reason  begged  him  to  release  himself  and  her 
from  all  future  compulsion,  and  to  relinquish  a  plan  which 


SILENT    LOVE.  139 


could  make  neither  of  them  happy.  At  the  same  time  she 
begged  him  to  allow  her  as  she  was  an  orphan,  and  alone  in 
the  world,  to  form  another  tie  with  him  in  place  of  the  one 
now  broken ;  to  consider  her  as  a  sister,  and  her  property  as 
a  common  inheritance  to  which  he  had  the  same  claim  as 
herself.  Finally,  she  urged  upon  him  the  acceptance  of 
half  her  property  with  so  much  warmth  and  earnestness, 
that  one  must  have  been  as  much  charmed  with  the  begin- 
ning of  the  letter  as  the  major  was,  who  could  see  in  these 
expressions  any  thing  but  the  most  urgent  desire  to  break 
off  the  connexion,  cost  what  it  might. 

In  this^  disagreeable  mood,  he  sat  down  to  answer  her  at 
once.  He  restored  to  her  her  liberty  ;  renounced  all  claims 
to  her  hand  ;  sent  back  all  her  father's  letters  referring  to 
the  matter ;  but  rejected  decidedly,  and  with  much  bitter- 
ness, her  offer  to  divide  the  property. 

He  was  very  angry.  He  knew  he  was  no  fool,  and  thought 
that  his  conduct  had  awakened  sufficient  confidence  in  every 
one,  even  in  Henrietta,  to  make  them  feel  he  was  incapable 
of  marrying  a  woman  who  did  not  give  him  her  hand  of  her 
own  free  will.  Then  why  all  these  circumstances  ?  Why 
so  great  a  sacrifice  ?  Was  he  so  unbearable  or  so  mean- 
spirited  that  she  must  give  up  half  her  wealth  to  buy  him 
off? 

His  letter  pained  Henrietta,  whose  intentions  had  been  so 
good :  but  she  was  charmed  by  the  noble  pride  that  spoke  in 
every  line,  and  she  felt  with  sorrow  how  excellent  the  man 
was  whom  she  renounced,  from  whom  an  insuperable  diffi- 
culty, as  she  called  it,  separated  her  for  ever.  "  Leah  for 
Ra  shell."  It  sounded  in  her  ears  whenever  she  yielded  to 


140  SILE.NT    LOVE. 

deceitful  hopes — to  flattering  possibilities — and  her  resolu- 
tion again  stood  firm  as  before. 

When  the  first  heat  of  the  major's  anger  was  over,  he  read 
Henrietta's  letter  a  second  time.  And  first  he  was  struck 
by  the  beautiful  writing,  which  he  had  not  noticed  before  ; 
the  firm,  fine  hand.  Then  he  came  to  the  sentiments  :  these 
were  at  least  not  common — almost  noble.  He  imagined  him- 
self in  her  situation  ;  he  found  there  was  something  delicate 
and  beautiful  in  her  course  of  action  ;  something  sincere  in 
her  tone  towards  him,  and  he  began  to  have  a  high  esteem 
for  the  girl  who  refused  so  pointedly  to  become  his  wife. 

A  whole  year  had  now  passed  away  since  her  father's 
death.  The  major  had  meantime  been  promoted  to  the  rank 
of  captain,  and  it  was  only  by  chance  or  secret  means  that 
Henrietta  heard  of  him.  At  this  time,  a  change  she  had 
made  in  the  arrangements  of  the  castle,  made  it  necessary  to 
remove  the  furniture  from  her  father's  sleeping  apartment, 
which,  from  a  feeling  of  reverence,  she  had  hitherto  left 
undisturbed. 

The  secretary  she  had  removed  to  her  own  chamber,  and 
there  arranged*  it  for  her  own  use. 

While  thus  occupied,  she  remembered  with  sorrow  the  last 
moments  of  her  father,  and  her  vain  attempts  to  understand 
his  signs.  She  had  then  searched  the  secretary  and  found 
nothing.  Now,  in  consequence  of  the  moving,  a  hidden 
drawer  had  become  visible  in  the  back  part  of  the  cabinet, 
whose  existence  she  had  not  suspected.  She  opened  it  with 
a  secret  shudder,  and  found  some  very  old  writings  endorsed 
in  an  envelope  in  her  father's  hand-writing.  She  read. 
How  great  was  her  astonishment — her  horror — as  she  learned 


SILENT    LOVE.  141 


from  these  papers  that  her  family  were  unjustly  possessed  of 
their  property  ;  that  there  was  in  existence  a  second  will  of 
her  great  grandfather,  cancelling  the  unjust  arrangement  he 
had  before  made,  and  re-instating  the  eldest  son  in  his  rights. 
Her  father  had  found  this  will  among  some  private  papers  of 
his  grandfather  :  and  apparently  neither  the  wife  nor  younger 
son  had  been  aware  of  its  existence,  or  they  would  have 
destroyed  it.  Brought  up  amid  wealth,  and  accustomed  to 
luxury,  the  president  had  not  the  strength  to  renounce  all, 
by  making  the  matter  public  ;  but  as  his  conscience  did  not 
let  him  rest,  he  sought  the  middle  way,  of  attaining  both  his 
objects  by  means  of  this  family  alliance. 

Henrietta  now  understood  her  father's  last  anxious  gestures, 
and  a  thousand  thoughts  and  feelings  rushed  upon  her.  For 
a  time  she  sat  as  if  stupified — the  ominous  letter  in  her  hand. 
But  to  a  mind  like  her's  there  was  no  doubt  as  to  what  was  to 
be  done.  She  sprang  up  :  her  resolution  was  fixed.  With- 
out consulting  any  one,  without  even  disclosing  the  matter  to 
her  guardian,  she  made  her  preparations  for  a  journey  to  the 
capital,  where  the  Countess  of  Dehnitz,  Almstein's  sister, 
was  spending  the  winter.  She  went  directly  to  her,  and 
begged  her  to  call  her  husband,  as  she  had  an  important 
family  secret  to  reveal  to  him.  The  count  came.  Henrietta 
drew  forth  the  papers,  handed  them  to  him,  and  begged  him 
to  write  to  his  brother-in-law,  and  request  him  to  take 
measures  for  resuming  the  property,  which  she  was  ready  to 
resign  at  once. 

The  count  and  countess  gazed  upon  Henrietta  with  mute 
astonishment.  They  did  not  know  which  to  admire  most,  the 
greatness  of  the  sacrifice  or  the  calmness  and  apparent 


142  SILENT    LOVE. 


pleasure  with  which  it  was  made.     At  last  the  countess  threw 
her  arms  round  Henrietta's  neck  : 

"  But  have  you  not  considered,  noble  girl,  that  you  will 
now  be  quite  poor,  when   you   give  up  every  thing  to  my 
brother  ?     Have  you  no  conditions  to  make  1     Name  them 
Ask  what  you  will !     I  know  my  Adolph  ;  he  will  joyfully 
share  with  you  what  you  might  have  retained  altogether." 

Henrietta's  heart  swelled,  Noble  pride,  joy  that  she 
could  thus  give  happiness  to  one  she  loved,  and  tender  emo- 
tions swayed  it  alternately.  She  sank  in  the  arms  of  the 
countess,  and  said  with  tears  : 

u  I  shall  be  quite  happy  when  your  brother  takes  and 
keeps  that  which  is  his  in  the  sight  of  God,  and  every  just 
judge.  What  I  inherit  from  my  aunt  is  sufficient  for  my 
wants  ;  I  need  nothing  more." 

Again  they  urged  her  ;  she  persisted  in  her  refusal,  and 
insisted  that  their  brother  should  wait  no  longer  for  these 
good  tidings. 

The  count  wrote  at  once,  but  the  countess  would  not  let 
Henrietta  go  away  ;  she  considered  her  as  a  guardian  spirit, 
a  higher  being,  who  had  come  as  a  blessing  to  her  house. 
Henrietta  found  a  part  of  her  reward  in  the  love  of  hei 
relatives  ;  and  the  likeness  to  Almstein  attracted  her  strongly 
to  his  sister.  Sophie,  so  the  countess  was  called,  had  her 
brother's  features  and  complexion,  and  a  voice  whose  tone  re- 
called the  remembrance  of  his.  Henrietta  felt  herself  drawn 
to  her  as  if  by  a  charm  ;  she  loved  to  be  with  her  and  spent 
here  many  happy  days. 

In  the  meantime  the  captain  had  received  his  *  brother-in- 
law's  letter.  Henrietta's  noble  conduct  astonished  him.  It 


SILENT    LOVE  143 


was  not  her  restoring  an  estate  to  which  she  had  not  a  full 
right  that  touched  him — he  felt  that  she  must  have  acted 
thus  ;  that  he  would  have  acted  so  himself — but  the  manner 
in  which  she  did  it ;  this  disinterested  noble  conduct — this 
entire  forgetfulness  of  her  own  interests — this  beautiful  con- 
fidence in  her  friends,  touched  and  charmed  him.  He  recalled 
his  former  broken  ties,  and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  his  life 
would  have  been  happier  by  the  side  of  Henrietta  than  of 
Caroline.  He  sought  out  her  first  letter,  in  which  she  had 
entreated  him  to  break  off  their  engagements,  and  he  found 
in  it  much  which  a  year  before  had  struck  him  very  dif- 
ferently. He  wished  to  know  Henrietta  better ;  his  heart 
was  free — and  then  the  thought  arose  in  his  mind,  that  their 
engagement  might  perhaps  be  renewed,  and  thus  the  noble, 
delicate-minded  girl,  remain  in  possession  of  her  property. 

He  wrote  to  her.  The  letter  bore  the  impress  of  the  ten- 
clerest  esteem  and  the  kindest  sympathy.  He  would  hear  of 
no  unconditional  renunciation  of  the  property  :  he  offered  her 
a  portion — or  the  whole,  if  she  would  decide  to  fulfil  her 
father's  old  wish,  and  receive  it  with  his  hand. 

Henrietta  trembled  as  she  read  the  letter  ;  her  feeling  foj 
Adolph  awoke  in  all  its  strength.  She  stood — she  doubted 
A  happy  future  presented  itself  to  her  soul.  But  then  her 
tye  fell  upon  a  mirror.  "  Leah  for  Rachel,'5  sounded  in  her 
»;ars.  She  compared  her  face  with  Almstein's  splendid  form  ; 
she  thought  of  the  opinion  of  the  world  ;  she  reflected,  it  was 
impossible  that  inclination,  it  was  only  magnanimity,  had  in- 
duced him  to  make  this  offer  and  she  controlled  her  deeply 
moved  heart  to  give  him  a  decided  refusal.  That  she  might 
not  seem  obstinate  or  wound  his  kindness,  she  consented  to 


144  SILENT    LOVE. 


retain  the  single  estate  of  Rohrbach,  which  was  of  inestim- 
able value  to  her,  as  it  was  in  a  very  romantic  situation  and 
very  near  Festenberg,  where  Almstein's  sister,  to  whom  she 
was  bound  by  so  many  secret  ties,  passed  the  greater  part  of 
the  year — where  she  could  hear  news  of  him — where  she 
thought  herself  nearer  to  him. 

Tender  and  considerate  as  was  Henrietta's  refusal,  Aim- 
stein,  who  really  esteemed  her,  was  offended  by  it.  He 
thought  he  perceived  in  it  the  same  prejudice  and  dislike,  of 
which  he  had  before  heard  in  her  parent's  house.  Conscious 
of  his  own  worth,  and  his  irreproachable  conduct  towards 
her,  he  could  explain  it  only  as  arising  from  a  natural  anti- 
pathy, and  this  wounded  his  feelings.  From  this  time  he 
thought  of  the  strange  girl  with  very  conflicting  emotions. 
But  he  looked  upon  it  as  a  sacred  duty  so  to  provide  for  her 
future  comfort  that  she  should  never  have  occasion  to  repent 
of  what  she  had  done.  In  a  letter  to  his  sister  he  formally 
resigned  all  claims  to  Rohrbach,  and  all  that  belonged  to  it, 
enclosing  at  the  same  time  a  carte  blanche  upon  his  banker, 
with  the  earnest  request  that  Henrietta  would  make  unlimited 
use  of  it.  He  delayed  making  any  division  of  the  remaining 
property  until  his  return,  which  he  would  endeavor  to  hasten, 
in  order  to  speak  with  her  upon  the  subject. 

Henrietta  felt  the  coldness  of  the  captain's  letter,  and  ex- 
plained it  as  quite  consistent  with  her  own  views.  She 
received  the  gift  of  Rohrbach  with  grateful  thanks — tore  in 
pieces,  before  Sophie's  eyes,  all  the  carte  blanche  except  the 
signature,  which  she  placed  in  her  bosom,  she  said,  as  a 
remembrance  of  his  generosity.  Sophie  gave  her  an  earnest 
and  inquiring  look.  Thoughts  rose  in  her  mind  which  had 


SILENT    LOVE. 


before  transiently  crossed  it.  Now  they  became  clearer  and 
more  definite,  but  she  was  silent — for  she  feared  to  offend 
Henrietta's  deeply  hidden  feeling  by  any  untimely  words. 

When  she  was  alone  she  congratulated  herself  on  having 
declined  Almstein's  offer — the  great  sacrifice  which  his  mag- 
nanimity had  urged  him  to  make. 

"  He  does  not  love  me.  How  could  he !  He  does  not 
know  me/'  she  exclaimed  with  sorrow.  "  I  have  nothing 
that  men  consider  attractive,  and  if  I  am  any  thing,  it  is 
only  to  those  who  have  learned  to  knov^  me  well.  That 
Almstein  will  never  do  ! " 

She  remained  a  fortnight  longer  with  Sophie,  and  then 
returned  to  her  lonely  castle  to  resign  it  with  all  other 
possessions  to  her  cousin's  agent.  To  her  great  astonishment 
she  heard  from  him  that  he  had  received  directions  to  take  it 
only  in  a  conditional  manner,  subject  to  any  requisitions  she 
might  think  fit  to  make. 

A  sweet  feeling  of  gratitude  and  emotion  pervaded  her 
heart ;  she  said,  decidedly,  she  wished  no  stipulations  made  ; 
caused  a  paper  to  be  drawn  up  by  her  guardian,  who  was 
much  displeased  at  her  too  hasty  magnanimity  ;  surrendered 
every  thing,  and  in  a  few  days  set  off  for  Rohrbach,  accompa- 
nied by  her  companion,  the  widow  of  an  officer. 

It  was  a  pleasant  surprise  to  her,  on  alighting  from  hei 
carriage,  to  find  Count  Dehnitz  and  his  wife  already  here, 
who  welcomed  her,  as  a  neighbor,  most  kindly  to  her  new 
residence  ;  but  a  still  more  agreeable  one  awaited  her.  The 
whole  castle,  as  far  as  the  short  time  permitted,  had  been 
fitted  up  by  Almstein's  directions^  with  every  thing  necessary 
to  convenience,  elegance,  and  the  most  refined  enjoyment  of 


146  SILENT    LOVE. 


life.  A  well  filled  library — a  room  hung  with  choice  en- 
gravings, excellent  musical  instruments,  a  green-house,  full 
of  the  rarest  and  loveliest  flowers  and  plants — in  short,  ail 
that  a  cultivated  mind  could  need  in  solitude,  was  provided 
with  as  much  taste  as  generosity.  The  countess  led 
Henrietta  all  around,  and  she  followed  with  a  beating  heart 
and  visible  emotion. 

"  Tell  your  brother,"  she  said  at  last,  "  how  joyous  you 
have  seen  me ;  how  his  gift  and  his  attentions  have  made  me 
happy,  and  beg  fcim  to  accept  the  unspoken  thanks  of  a 
moved  heart,  as  the  reward  of  his  kindness. " 

On  the  third  day,  the  Count  and  Sophie  returned  to  the 
capital,  intending  soon  to  revisit  Festenburg,  and  pass  many 
happy  days  with  Henrietta.  She  interested  herself  in  her 
house  and  furniture,  and  in  sweet  remembrances  of  the 
friendly  giver.  To  think  of  him  was  the  dearest  employ- 
ment of  her  solitary  hours;  but  her  heart  and  her  active 
mind  found  more  important  occupation  in  plans  for  bettering 
the  condition  of  her  tenantry.  Thus  the  remainder  of  the 
winter  passed  away,  and  with  the  spring,  her  loved  neigh- 
bors returned  to  Festenburg.  She  now  had  society,  and  so- 
ciety of  the  most  refined  and  elevated  character.  She  was 
daily  at  Festenburg,  or  the  family  with  her,  and  Almstein's 
letters  from  the  army  were  exciting  eras  in  the  quiet  life  of 
these  excellent  people,  who  were  so  much  interested  in  him. 

His  last  letter  contained  his  feelings  on  the  eve  of  a  great 
battle  which  was  expected  to  take  place  on  the  following  day. 
It  was  very  serious,  and  almost  sad ;  it  seemed  as  if  dark 
presentiments  swept  before  him.  A  second  letter  was  looked 
for  with  anxious  expectation  at  Festenburg,  and  with  stil) 


SILENT    LOVE.  117 


greater  at  Rohrbach  ;  but  it  did  not  arrive  The  news  of 
the  battle  which  had  been  won,  came  through  the  public  pa- 
pers ;  among  those  who  had  most  distinguished  themselves, 
and  among  the  severely  wounded,  was  his  name.  Deep 
grief  and  fearful  apprehension  took  possession  of  Sophie — 
and  suffering  she  could  not  express,  kept  Henrietta  for  two 
long  days  in  terrible  anxiety.  On  the  third  day  a  letter 
arrived  from  Almstein's  body  servant.  The  captain,  by  his 
coolness,  and  the  good  conduct  of  his  regiment,  had  regained 
the  battle,  when  it  was  almost  lost ;  at  the  head  of  his  cui- 
rassiers, he  had  thrown  himself  upon  the  advancing  enemy  5 
broken  through  their  closed  ranks,  and  spread  havoc  and 
confusion  around.  His  courage  excited  that  of  his  troops, 
the  flying  stood,  the  scattered  assembled  themselves  together. 
In  the  close  combat,  he  received  a  sabre  thrust  in  his  head, 
but  still  regardless  of  his  own  danger,  he  pressed  forward, 
when  a  second  thrust  threw  him  backwards  off  his  horse,  and 
the  whole  front  rank  of  his  squadron,  not  knowing  what  they 
did,  and  no  longer  to  be  restrained,  dashed  over  him.  After 
the  battle,  he  was  drawn  out  from  the  slain  as  dead ;  and 
although  at  the  time  the  letter  was  writ«?n,  about  eight  days 
after  the  affair  took  place,  he  still  lived,  there  was  little  or 
no  hope  of  his  recovery. 

Warm  tears  flowed  in  Festenburg  and  Rohrbach,  for  his 
misfortune  and  their  own  threatened  loss.  Henrietta  now 
felt,  for  the  first  time,  how  i  nspeakably  dear  to  her  Adolph 
had  become.  Violent  grief  affected  her  health  ;  she  became 
very  sick,  and  Sophie's  heart  was  divided  between  the  ap- 
prehension she  felt  for  her  brother  and  her  beloved  friend ; 
but  she  would  not  have  been  a  woman,  if  all  this  had  not 


148  SILENT    LOVE. 


taught  her  that  her  former  suppositions  wore  correct,  and 
Henrietta  loved  her  brother.  Henrietta's  decided  rejection 
of  her  brother  was,  however,  perfectly  inexplicable  ;  but  as 
she  observed  so  strict  a  silence  about  her  feelings,  and  en- 
deavored to  conceal  the  true  cause  of  her  illness  from  Sophie, 
delicacy  prevented  her  from  trying  to  tear  aside  the  veil  in 
which  Henrietta  so  studiously  shrouded  her  heart. 

Two  weeks  passed  away  in  unspeakable  sorrow  and  anxi- 
ety. At  last  came  a  second  letter.  The  servant  announced 
to  the  Countess,  they  had  now  hope  of  the  Captain's  life, 
but  that  they  scarcely  expected  his  entire  restoration  to 
health,  as  his  wounds  were  deep  and  dangerous ;  and  under 
these  circumstances,  his  master  seemed  scarcely  to  wish  for 
a  longer  life,  and  was  depressed  and  melancholy. 

This  letter  filled  his  friends  with  mingled  feelings;  the 
predominant  one  with  Henrietta  was  her  own  increased  love 
for  him.  His  image  had  often  appeared  before  her  in  more 
peaceful  days,  in  all  the  glory  of  beauty,  dazzling,  enraptur- 
ing. Now  it  was  never  out  of  her  sight — but  she  always 
saw  him,  pale,  sick,  melancholy,  and  for  that  very  reason  so 
attractive,  so  irresistible.  She  now  repented  that  she  had 
not  accepted  his  offer,  for  then  she  might  have  attained  what 
seemed  to  her  the  highest  object  of  her  life :  the  power  of 
dedicating  herself  entirely  to  him,  of  brightening  his  sad  lot, 
and  removing  many  a  burthen  from  his  weary  spirit.  His 
personal  beauty  was  no  longer  any  hindrance — its  charm  was 
in  a  great  measure  destroyed — she  would  now  have  been  on 
equality  with  him,  and  his  happiness  have  been  her  work. 

She  carefully  concealed  these  feelings  under  a  quiet, 
friendly  sympathy ;  but  Sophie  had  read  her  heart,  and, 


SILENT    LOVE.  149 


without  allowing  it  to  be  known,  she  was  secretly  building 
up  a  plan,  founded  upon  Henrietta's  love,  and  her  brother's 
opinions,  which  was  to  secure  the  happiness  of  the  whole 
well-known  family. 

Two  months  more  had  elapsed,  when  a  letter  was  received 
from  Almstein  himself.  He  was  able  .to  be  up  again,  and 
could  amuse  himself  for  a  little  while  with  reading  and  wri- 
ting. His  wounds  were  healed  ;  but  their  effects  would,  he 
wrote,  embitter  his  whole  life.  The  future  lay  dark  and  sad 
before  him ;  and  were  it  not  for  the  fear  of  inflicting  an  into- 
lerable burthen  upon  his  sister  and  her  family,  it  would  be  a 
comfort  and  pleasure  to  him  to  come  to  her  the  next  autumn, 
and  pass  his  remaining  days  among  his  beloved  relatives. 

The  letter  bore  so  evidently  the  impression  of  the  deepest 
melancholy,  that  Sophie  and  her  husband  were  quite  moved 
by  it,  and  Henrietta  could  scarcely  conceal  her  tears.  The 
Countess  wrote  to  him  at  once  ;  she  entreated  him,  with  the 
sincerest  affection,  to  come  to  them  as  soon  as  possible,  assu- 
ring him  that  it  would  be  the  most  earnest  endeavor  of  herself 
and  her  husband  to  make  life  pleasant  to  him  ;  that  she  rejoiced 
in  his  coming  as  a  great  pleasure  and  trusted  that  many  bright 
smiling  hopes  were  in  store  for  him  in  the  future. 

He  was  actually  coming  again — Henrietta  was  to  see  him, 
to  be  constantly  near  him !  Various  feelings  alternated  in  her 
agitated  soul — longing  and  joy,  fear  and  anxiety.  Autumn 
at  length  drew  nigh,  and  a  letter  came  from  Almstein,  an- 
nouncing his  arrival  the  next  day.  His  mind  seemed  to  have 
aroused  from  the  melancholy  which  bodily  suffering  had  in- 
duced ;  he  was  less  gloomy,  and  better  satisfied  with  his  health. 

Almstein  knew  that  Henrietta  lived  in  the  neighborhood 


150  EILLNT    LOVE. 


of  his  sister,  that  he  was  constantly  with  his  relations,  al- 
though Sophie  had  designedly  said  little  about  her  in  her  let- 
ters. It  was  rather  a  bitter  appendix  to  the  pleasures  he 
promised  himself,  to  be  forced  to  be  constantly  with  a  person 
of  whose  decided  aversion  to  himself  he  thought  he  had  so 
many  convincing  proofs.  He  hoped,  however,  that  by  con- 
stant intercourse  of  such  a  quiet  character,  this  unpleasant 
feeling  between  him  arid  his  former  betrothed  would  wear 
away. 

It  was  a  lovely  autumn  day  when  he  entered  on  his  jour- 
ney. The  distance  was  considerable,  and  as  he  could  ac- 
complish it  only  by  short  stages,  it  was  on  the  eighth  day,  a 
bright,  clear  Sunday  morning,  that  he  arrived  in  the  vicinity 
of  his  future  residence.  As  he  saw,  from  a  distance,  the  red 
roof  of  Festenburg,  a  glad  feeling  arose  in  his  breast.  The 
strong  excitements  and  wild  life  of  war  had  not  made  his 
heart  cold  ;  he  had  still  a  keen  sense  of  the  pleasures  of  do- 
mestic happiness  ;  and  though  his  misfortune  did  not  allow 
him  to  enjoy  them  in  their  purest  and  most  direct  form,  he 
gratified  his  feelings  by  thinking  of  the  happiness  of  his  sis- 
ter and  his  brother-in-law,  for  whom  he  felt  so  strong  an  in- 
terest. He  now  discerned,  on  a  distant  hill,  the  pointed 
tower  of  Rohrbach,  and  soon  after  saw  the  white  castle  on 
the  declivity,  gleaming  through  the  trees.  There  lived  the 
strange  girl  who  had  been  willing  to  resign  half  her  property 
in  order  to  free  herself  from  his  addresses.  He  was  ab- 
sorbed in  imagining  how  she  would  receive  him,  how  conduct 
herself  towards  him,  and  with  secret  satisfaction,  he  formed 
plans  for  repaying  her  generous  sacrifice,  and  compelling  her 
to  share  the  wealth  she  had  so  willingly  relinquished. 


SILENT    LOVE. 


In  the  mean  time,  he  had  reached  the  avenue  of  fir-trees 
that  led  to  Festenburg.  His  carriage  had  already  been  seen 
from  the  castle.  Sophie,  her  husband,  her  children,  all 
hastened  to  meet  him,  welcoming  him  with  loud  exclamations 
of  joy.  With  a  swelling  breast,  he  descended  from  the  car- 
riage, threw  himself  into  th.e  arms  of  his  loved  friends,  and 
with  tearful  eyes  pressed  them  to  his  beating  heart.  The 
feeling  of  home,  the  happiness  of  finding  himself  beloved, 
penetrated  his  inmost  soul,  exciting  the  purest  human  joy. 
His  friends  thought  him  changed,  but  by  no  means  so  unre- 
cognisable as  he  had  described  himself.  Two  great  scars  on 
his  cheeks  and  forehead,  indeed  disfigured  his  beauty,  and 
his  blooming  complexion  was  gone  ;  but  there  was  still  the 
large  spiritual  eye,  the  noble  features,  the  commanding 
height,  the  proud  bearing,  though  a  contusion  on  the  foot 
rendered  his  walking  difficult.  Sophie's  plan  was  formed  in 
a  moment.  No  one  in  the  castle  was  to  say  a  word  of  the 
captain's  arrival,  to  the  inhabitants  of  Rohrbach  who  might 
come  over  to  attend  the  church  service.  She  expected  Hen- 
rietta as  usual,  with  some  other  guests  from  the  neighbor- 
hood, who  dined  with  her  on  Sunday.  She  arranged  it  all 
with  her  husband,  and  gave  a  hint  to  the  captain  as  to  the 
part  he  was*  to  play.  She  wished  him  to  read  Henrietta's 
soul,  to  give  him  some  idea  that  at  least  he  was  not  hated. 
As  Henrietta's  carriage  entered  the  court,  she  reminded 
them  of  their  agreement. 

Henrietta  entered.  Sophie,  and  a  part  of  the  company, 
went  to  meet  her,  and  surrounded  her,  so  that  she  could  not 
see  the  captain,  of  whose  presence  she  had  not  the  slightest 
Suddenly  he  approached  her  from  one  side,  and  spoke 


152  SILENT    LOVE. 


to  her.  "  Adolph ! "  she  exclaimed,  frightened  and  trem- 
bling, while  she  laid  her  hand  on  her  heart.  His  voice  had 
been  echoed  there.  She  turned  quickly  round ;  he  stood  be- 
fore her.  Trembling,  speechless,  she  extended  him  her 
hand ;  at  first  she  could  not  bring  out  a  word,  but  in  the 
glistening  eyes,  in  the  tears  that  moistened  them,  there  was 
expressed  the  purest  joy,  the  surprise  of  the  truest  love. 
She  held  his  hand  in  a  long,  close  grasp.  "  At  last  we  see 
each  other  again  !"  she  exclaimed,  looking  at  him  with  an 
undisguised  interest.  The  captain  was  struck — he  had  ex- 
pected so  different  a  reception  !  At  first,  words  failed  him 
too  :  then  he  asked  her  if  she  would  have  recognised  him,  if 
he  had  not  first  spoken,  if  she  had  met  him  elsewhere  than 
at  his  sister's. 

"  Oh,  in  a  moment ! "  exclaimed  Henrietta ;  "  among  a 
thousand,  any  where  ! " 

"  And  yet  I  am  very  much  changed,"  continued  the  cap- 
tain. 

"  Because  you  have  suffered  so  much,"  Henrietta  inter- 
itipted,  with  an  agitated  voice.  "  We  had  given  you  up  for 
more  than  three  weeks !  Oh,  that  was  a  sad  time ! " 

She  stopped — for  she  feared  her  tears  were  ready  to  fall. 
Sophie  too  approached,  who  had  seen  enough,  and  put  an 
end  to  this  agitating  conversation.  The  conversation  be- 
came general,  and  Henrietta  gradually  recovered  her  usual 
self-possession. 

It  was  not  so  with  the  captain.  Her  greeting,  her  man- 
ner, during  the  whole  day,  was  so  inconsistent  with  the  dis- 
like he  supposed  her  to  feel  towards  him.  He  occupied  him- 
eelf  in  trying  to  explain  it,  and  the  girl  who  had  so  proudlv 


,0f  SILENT    LOVE.  158 

rejected  him,  whose  outward  appearance  was  not  such  as 
would  attract  most  men,  began  to  awaken  a  lively  interest 
in  him.  Henrietta  was  quite  cheerful,  and  took  part  in  the 
conversation ;  but  the  captain  was  quiet,  and  apparently  ab- 
sorbed in  his  own  thoughts.  When  her  carriage  was  an- 
nounced, he  begged  permission  to  visit  her,  and  it  was 
granted  with  heartfelt  pleasure. 

He  came  the  next  morning,  and  was  received  like  a  dear 
friend.  She  led  him  round  her  little  mansion,  showed  him 
all  its  advantages  and  conveniences,  and  told  him  how  happy 
she  felt  in  being  able  openly  to  express  her  feelings  to  the 
one  whose  attention  and  kindness  had  procured  her  all  these 
enjoyments.  Almstein  was  confused  and  strangely  affected 
by  these  strange  circumstances.  When  she  returned  to  the 
library,  and  was  about  to  begin  a  conversation  upon  indiffer- 
ent subjects,  he  interrupted  her.  "  No,  my  cousin,  matters 
cannot  remain  thus  between  us.  I  have  long  waited  for  an 
opportunity  to  speak  with  you  about  our  mutual  concerns ; 
and  if  the  unfortunate  accident  that  destroyed  my  plans  of 
life,  had  not  intervened,  I  should  long  ere  this  have  obtained 
leave  of  absence  to  put  an  end  to  this  affair." 

He  then  told  her  that  since  his  ill  health  and  melancholy 
had  cut  off  all  his  hopes  of  domestic  happiness,  he  had  re- 
solved to  divide  his  property  into  two  equal  portions,  secu- 
ring the  one  to  his  nephew  by  will,  and  resigning  the  other 
to  her  entire  disposal.  Henrietta's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as 
he  spoke.  It  was  not  emotion  at  his  offer ;  it  was  sorrow  for 
lis  condition,  for  his  gloomy  views  of  life. 

"  You  shall  not  do  so,"  she  said,  with  animation,  as  she 
took  his  hand  •  "  you  must  not  so  hastily,  so  resolutely,  re- 


154  SILENT    LOVf  , 


nounee  the  best  joys  of  life.     You  must  marrj  :  you  will 
find  some  one — " 

"  Oh  !  of  that  I  have  not  the  least  doubt.  I  can  find 
enough  of  girls  who,  through  me5  would  gladly  become  wives 
— then  soon  widows,  and  owners  of  my  estate.  But  if  I 
should  ever  have  the  folly  to  marry,  my  wife  must  devote 
herself  entirely  to  me  and  to  my  way  of  life.  She  must  re- 
nounce the  world  and  its  pleasures  to  sit  at  home  with  a 
sick,  perhaps  morose,  man ;  and  in  this  solitude  be  my  com- 
panion, my  entertaining  sympathizing  friend.  Where  shall 
I  find  one  capable  of  doing  this  and  renouncing  so  much  ? 
Those  whom  I  could  get  would  not  make  me  happy,  and 
those  who  could  make  me  happy  would  know  how  to  choose 
a  better  alliance." 

Henrietta  was  silent.  Her  feelings  were  too  much  ex- 
cited ;  the  hopes  of  the  past  stood  before  her — she  sighed, 
but  did  not  answer. 

Again  Almstein  urged  her  to  accede  to  his  wishes,  but  she 
as  earnestly  declined.  In  order  to  avoid  injuring  his  gene 
rous  feelings,  she  graciously  accepted  her  mother's  jewels, 
which  he  had  brought  with  him,  and  she  promised  in  such  a 
sincere,  serious  manner,  to  apply  to  him  whenever  she 
needed  any  thing,  that  he  could  not  doubt  the  firmness  of 
her  resolution.  He  went  away  half  pleased,  half  displeased 
with  her,  but  determined  at  all  events  to  become  better  ac- 
quainted with  this  noble  girl. 

He  soon  had  opportunity  for  doing  this.  Henrietta  came 
Ojiiite  as  often,  or  perhaps  even  oftener,  than  before  to  Fes- 
tenburg,  or  they  were  with  her  at  Rohrbach.  The  captain 
saw  her  daily,  and  was  dailj  more  convinced  of  the  beauty 


SILENT    LOVA.  155 


of  her  character.  Her  information  afforded  inexhaustible 
materials  for  conversation  ;  her  talents,  for  she  played  and 
sang  with  more  than  ordinary  skill,  entertained  him  agreea- 
bly ;  but  more  than  all  these  advantages,  which  were  the 
fruits  of  high  cultivation,  her  tender  consideration  for  him 
attracted  him  towards  her.  When  walking,  she  was  content 
to  follow  slowly  on  his  arm,  the  more  rapid  paces  of  her 
companions.  If  the  others  ascended  a  hill  or  went  where  it 
was  difficult  for  the  captain  to  follow,  she  stayed  so  kindly, 
so  cheerfully  with  him,  that  she  seemed  scarcely  to  be 
making  any  sacrifice.  If  pain  from  his  wounds  attacked 
him  or  a  dark  cloud  seemed  to  overshadow  his  spirit,  Sophie 
sent  immediately  to  Rohrbach.  Henrietta  came,  gave  him 
her  society,  read  to  him  when  he  was  able  to  listen,  narrated 
tales,  histories,  jests,  to  divert  him ;  and  when  nothing  else 
would  do,  she  went  to  the  piano,  and  like  David,  charmed 
away  the  evil  spirit  from  her  friend,  by  its  sweet  sounds. 

Slowly  and  imperceptibly  their  souls  seemed  to  be  uniting 
more  closely  together.  Almstein  was  so  accustomed  to 
Henrietta's  society,  that  he  seemed  restless  and  disturbed, 
as  if  something  was  wanting,  if  she  missed  a  day  in  coming 
to  Festenburg.  Then  he  would  order  the  carriage  and  drive 
over  to  her.  He  now  scarcely  remarked  that  she  was  not 
beautiful,  her  intellectual  eye,  her  elegant  figure,  so  often 
charmed  him.  Sophie  saw  the  tender  feeling  growing  in  the 
heart  of  her  brother,  and  she  rejoiced  at  it ;  his  condition 
rendered  it  doubly  desirable  that  he  should  be  united  to  an 
affectionate,  sensible  woman,  who  would  gladden  his  heart, 
and  open  it  to  the  enjoyment  of  life.  But  with  proper  deli- 
cacy she  avoided  every  thing  like  intermeddling  in  the 


156  SILENT    LOVE. 


affair;  she  suffered  their  hearts  to  unfold  to  one  another, 
watched  over  them,  and  took  care  that  they  were  undis- 
turbed, and  trusted  to  time  and  love  for  the  issue. 

Henrietta  observed  with  heartfelt  pleasure  how  much 
Adolph  seemed  drawn  towards  her  ;  she  felt  what  she  was  to 
him,  and  thought  how  much  more  she  might  become.  The 
thought  of  sharing  his  fate,  and  by  sharing  rendering  it  less 
hard,  dedicating  her  whole  existence  to  him,  living  for  him 
alone,  considering  all  his  pleasures  and  his  cheerfulness,  as 
her  work,  filled  her  with  happiness.  But  the  more  she 
loved,  the  greater  was  her  anxiety.  "  He  indeed  prefers  me 
to  all  his  friends,"  she  often  said  to  herself;  "  he  shows  me 
openly  an  attention  and  affection  that  almost  borders  upon 
love,  but  only  borders.  He  does  not  yet  love  me  ;  and  he 
is  now  bowed  down  by  suffering,  solitary  and  restricted  to 
the  society  of  a  few  persons.  How  will  it  be  when  he  re- 
turns to  the  city  ;  when  his  wealth,  his  personal  attractions, 
his  fine  appearance  draw  upon  him  the  looks  and  designs  of 
both  mothers  and  daughters,  when  efforts  are  made  on  all 
sides  to  attract  and  please  him  ?  How  will  it  be  then  ?  He 
must  stand  his  trial,  his  affection  for  me  must  resist  those 
attacks  before  I  can  believe  it  is  love,  before  I  can  hope  to 
be  to  him  all  I  wish  to  be,  and  our  mutual  happiness  be  se- 
cured." 

Thus  thought  Henrietta.  Almstein,  convinced  that  he 
should  never  marry,  thought  only  of  the  present  moment ; 
and  thus  without  having  tried  his  feelings  was  unconscious 
of  their  strength.  In  the  meantime  the  autumn  passed 
away,  and  the  approach  of  winter  summoned  Dehnitz  and  his 
TV  lie  back  to  the  city.  His  affairs  also  required  the  presence 


SILENT    LOVE.  167 

of  the  captain.  They  tried  to  persuade  Henrietta  to  accom- 
pany the  family.  Almstein  urged  her  to  do  it,  with  warmth, 
with  sincerity,  at  last  almost  with  tenderness.  But  she 
steadfastly  refused.  Her  heart  bled  at  the  thought  of  living 
quite  alone,  without  him  who  had  now  become  so  necessary 
to  her  happiness.  But  she  conquered  this  feeling ;  she 
thought  of  the  test  of  his  love,  and  excused  herself  on  the 
ground  of  her  love  of  solitude  and  her  many  occupations. 
Almstein,  wounded  and  vex  3d,  at  last  ceased  his  solicita- 
tions, and  Henrietta  remarked,  not  unwillingly,  that  from 
this  moment  he  was  colder  and  more  reserved  towards  her. 

She  felt  pained  that  she  had  refused  him  this  request. 
He  was  now  convinced  that  she  did  not  care  as  much  for  him 
as  he  did  for  her,  since  she  so  easily  renounced  his  society, 
and  found  compensation  for  his  friendship  in  solitude.  He 
remembered  her  former  rejections  ;  and  although  he  no 
longer  believed  in  any  dislike  on  her  side,  he  considered  her 
as  incapable  of  true,  deep  feeling. 

The  day  was  fixed  for  the  departure  of  the  family.  Hen- 
rietta wept  half  of  the  night,  and  the  next  morning  came  to 
Festenburg  to  breakfast  for  the  last  time  with  her  relations, 
looking  so  distressed  that  every  one  whose  judgment  was  not 
warped,  like  Almstein's,  could  guess  the  true  cause  of  the 
change.  He  was  out  of  humor,  and  so  vexed  at  the  ap- 
proaching separation,  that  he  interpreted  every  thing  the 
wrong  way.  According  to  him,  all  this  sorrow  was  for  his 
sister,  and  the  breaking  up  of  the  pleasant  social  circle. 
The  carriages  were  packed,  and  the  servants  announced  that 
every  thing  was  ready.  They  rose  from  the  table.  On  the 
steps  Almstein  extended  his  hand  to  Henrietta.  He  did  not 


158  SILENT    LOVE. 


gpeak,  but  she  saw  that  he  was  deeply  moved.  Her  tears 
started,  she  could  no  longer  retain  them.  "  Oh,  Adolph ! " 
she  said,  with  a  voice  almost  choked  with  rising  sobs : 
"  when  shall  we  see  each  other  again  ?  "  He  stepped  back 
and  looked  earnestly  at  her. 

"  Do  you  wish  then  to  see  me  soon  again  ?  "  he  asked,  in 
a  half  bitter,  half  tender  tone. 

Henrietta  raised  her  clasped  hands.  "  Oh,  Father  in 
Heaven !  "  she  exclaimed,  and  her  tears  streamed  forth. 

The  tone  penetrated  his  heart — it  was  the  tone  cf  the  sin- 
cerest  love,  the  truest  sorrow.  Touched,  enraptured,  he 
threw  his  arm  around  her  and  drew  her  toward  him.  *'  I 
shall  come  soon  again,  very  soon,  dear  cousin !  perhaps 
sooner  than  you  will  expect  me." 

"  Oh,  Adolph,'5  she  said,  weeping,  as  her  head  rested 
against  his  shoulder,  "my  days  will  be  very,  very  solitary," 
He  kissed  her  forehead — she  blushed  and  trembled.  "My. 
dear,  my  beloved  Henrietta !  I  cannot  live  without  you  i " 
At  this  moment  the  count,  who  had  already  waited  for  some 
time  in  the  carriage,  called  out  to  his  brother-in-law.  The 
captain  tore  himself  from  Henrietta,  got  in  rapidly,  and  the 
carriage  rattled  through  the  castle  gate  and  over  the  bridge. 

Henrietta  stood  for  a  time  as  if  stupified — lost  in  sorrow, 
joy,  and  unspeakable  love.  Then  she  slowly  iscended  the 
steps,  sat  down  where  she  had  before  been  with  Adolph,  and 
wept  herself  tired.  At  last  she  rose  up,  visited  all  the  places 
where  she  had  talked,  read,  sang  with  him  ;  where  she  had 
first  seen  him — bade  farewell  to  all  these  joys,  threw  herself 
into  her  carriage,  and  returned  h  )me  through  a  thick  Decem- 
ber mist. 


SILENT    LOVE.  159 

One  thought  alone  brightened  her  sad  solitude  ;  the  hope^ 
&hat  was  now  almost  certainty,  that  Adolph  felt  for  her  more 
th<Ki  friendship,  that  it  was  really  love.  But  the  sweeter  this 
confidence  was  to  her,  the  more  anxiously  she  thought  of  the 
attractions  of  the  city.  Only  his  letters,  in  which  he  spoke 
with  such  warmth  of  the  happiness  he  had  enjoyed,  and  his 
longing  desire  to  see  her  again,  calmed  her  anxiety,  and 
rendered  her  solitude  endurable. 

All  that  she  had  foreseen  really  happened.  The  captain 
had  scarcely  appeared  in  the  circle  into  which  he  was  drawn 
by  his  profession,  and  his  former  acquaintance,  than  designs 
wcie  made  upon  him  on  all  sides,  and  the  loveliest  women  and 
girls  made  advances  towards  him.  He  amused  himself  with 
some  of  them  ;  here  and  there  he  found  dazzling  beauty, 
shining  talents,  kind  dispositions — but  he  found  no  where  the 
even,  equable  cheerfulness,  mild  goodness,  and  deep  feeling 
in  such  beautiful  combination,  as  in  Henrietta.  Every  time 
he  returned  home  his  conviction  was  strengthened  that  no 
woman  on  the  earth  suited  him  so  well  or  could  make  him  so 
happy  as  she  ;  but  as  this  conviction  grew  stronger,  Almstein 
became  more  depressed.  Sophie  remarked  it ;  she  expostu- 
lated with  him  affectionately  and  at  last  he  confessed  his 
feelings  for  Henrietta  ;  he  said  that  if  she  could  now  resolve 
to  accept  his  hand,  he  would  look  forward  to  a  brighter, 
happier  future  than  he  had  ever  anticipated  even  in  the  full 
bloom  of  health.  Sophie  was  rejoiced  ;  her  satisfaction  was 
evidenced  by  her  reddening  cheek,  her  glistening  eye.  To 
the  captain  this  pleasure  seemed  somewhat  premature  ;  but 
Sophie  assured  him  that  she  was  certain  of  Henrietta's  con- 
Bent,  she  bade  him  be  of  good  courage,  and  urged  him  to 


160  SILENT    LOVE. 


write  to  her.  He  at  first  consented,  but  then  determined  to 
go  himself  and  receive  his  sentence.  The  project  had  too 
much  interest  for  him  to  allow  of  any  delay,  and  his  departure 
was  fixed  for  the  following  day. 

Four  weeks  had  now  passed  away  since  Henrietta  had  been 
quite  alone,  living  on  the  remembrance  of  past  happiness  and 
her  uncertain  hopes  for  the  future.  On  a  gloomy  evening, 
when  not  a  star  was  shining,  and  dark  clouds  hung  over  the 
leafless  forests  in  the  narrow  valley  through  which  wound  the 
road  leading  to  Festenburg,  she  sat  at  the  window  looking  out 
sadly  and  thoughtfully  on  the  winter  night.  She  suddenly 
saw  lights  moving  at  a  distance  ;  they  seemed  to  be  coming 
up  the  road  that  led  through  the  valley.  At  first  she  thought 
it  was  the  peasants  who  with  lights  were  seeking  their  way 
home.  At  length  she  heard  a  distant  rattling — it  was  a 
carriage — a  sweet  presentiment  took  possession  of  her  heart — 
the  lights  came  nearer,  followed  the  road  that  turned  off  on 
the  hill  towards  the  castle ;  now  they  had  reached  the 
entrance,  she  recognised  the  arms  of  her  house — Almstein's 
equipage — it  was  he.  She  hastened  out,  trembling  with 
pleasure  and  surprise ;  he  met  her  in  the  hall  with  outspread 
arms.  His  overflowing  feeling  had  made  him  speechless,  and 
he  pressed  her  to  his  heart.  It  was  only  when  quietly  seated 
together  in  the  drawing-room,  and  the  first  tumult  of  their 
joy  was  over,  that  they  had  found  words  to  express  how  each 
had  wanted  the  other  ;  how  they  had  longed  for  one  another  ; 
how  impossible  Adolph  had  found  it  to  live  longer  without 
her.  Gradually,  however,  he  became  more  silent ;  he  seemed 
abstracted,  lost  in  one  absorbing  thought.  Henrietta  ob- 
served it,  and  affectionate!^  asked  him  the  reason. 


SILENT    LOVE.  161 


*'  I  have  an  important  question  to  ask  you/3  he  at  length 
began,  "  an<?  I  must  entreat  you  to  answer  me  candidly  and 
with  the  strictest  truth." 

She  promised,  and  he  continued.  "  Why  have  you  twice 
so  decidedly  refused  my  hand?  What  was  the  cause  of 
your  former  dislike  towards  me  ?" 

"  Dislike  ?"  repeated  Henrietta,  blushing,  and  she  cast 
down  her  eyes,  but  said  no  more. 

The  captain  pressed  the  question  upon  her ;  at  last  she 
confessed,  that  the  marked  difference  between  her  appearance 
and  his,  his  first  hopes  of  her  beautiful  sister,  her  dread  of 
the  world's  derision,  and  his  future  repentance  had  impelled 
her  to  it. 

Almstein  listened  to  her  silently  and  seriously.  "  You 
think  then,"  he  said  after  a  pause,  "  that  perfect  equality 
of  circumstances  is  indispensable  to  a  happy  marriage  ? 
That  neither  should  make  the  least  sacrifice  to  the  other, 
neither  excel  the  other  in  the  most  unimportant  points  ?  Do 
you  really  think  this,  my  cousin  1 " 

Almstein' s  manner  was  very  serious.  At  first  she  was 
silent — she  saw  the  drift  of  his  question.  "  Only  a  true 
love,"  she  answered  after  some  reflection,  "  a  love  that 
dreads  no  sacrifice  because  it  feels  none  ;  because  all  that  it 
does  for  the  beloved  object  is  sweet  and  easy — only  such  a 
love  can  equalize  greater  differences.  But  this  I  could  not 
then  expect  from  you." 

"  And  could  you  be  capable  of  such  a  love  ?"  His  voice 
was  low,  and  almost  trembling,  and  he  looked  earnestly  and 
inquiringly  in  her  eye. 

She  became  wore  excited — she  felt  how  much  he  was 


162  SILENl    LOVE. 


moved — she  looked  at  him,  and  this  look  might  have  revealed 
to  him  her  full  loving  heart — but  it  did  not  satisfy  his  excited 
feelings,  and  again  her  eyes  fell  to  the  ground. 

"  Can  you  resolve,"  he  earnestly  continued,  till  at  last  he 
was  quite  carried  away  by  his  feelings  ;  "  can  you  resolve  to 
make  this  great  sacrifice,  to  renounce  all  the  pleasures  of 
youth  and  society,  to  bind  yourself  to  the  person,  perhaps  ere 
long  to  the  sick  bed,  of  a  hypochondriac,  joyless  man — to  be 
every  thing  to  him  ;  to  make  his  whole  happiness — to  rendei 
his  life  one  of  heavenly  enjoyment ;  his " 

"  I  am  resolved  to  do  all  for  you,'5  cried  Henrietta,  and 
her  tears  burst  forth  as  she  threw  herself  into  his  arms. 

The  captain  pressed  her  to  his  heart.  Her  confession 
made  him  unspeakably  happy  ;  but  he  scarcely  dared  to 
trust  the  sweet  enchantment. 

"  But  have  you  tried  your  feelings,  my  Henrietta. 
We  have  known  each  other  only  a  little  while  ;  sympathy, 
esteem  have  deceived  many  a  warm  heart  because  it  was  so 
warm.  Is  it  love  that  you  feel  for  me  ?  " 

She  rose  and  looked  at  him  with  glistening  eyes.  This 
noble  sentiment  seemed  to  have  given  a  calm  elevation  to  her 
whole  being.  "  Listen  to  me,  Adolph — and  then  decide," 
she  said.  "  I  have  loved  you  since  the  first  time  I  saw  you. 
I  fled  from  you,  because  my  heart  suffered  too  deeply  in  ycur 
presence.  I  refused  your  hand  because  I  knew  that  you  could 
not  love  me.  I  wished  to  share  my  wealth  with  you,  to  do 
all  that  was  in  my  power  to  make  you  happy — and  I  rejected 
your  second  offer,  because  I  saw  it  was  only  generosity  that 
induced  you  to  make  it.  But  when  you  were  wounded,  when 
I  knew  that  you  needed  the  sympathy,  the  tender  care  of  a 


EVENING.  163 


true,  loving  being,  every  drawback  vanished,  and  I  firmly 
resolved  to  share  your  fate — to  live  for  you — to  do  for  you 
all  that  was  in  my  power.  Now  judge,  Adolph.  whether  I 
make  a  sacrifice  when  I  accept  your  hand  ! " 

Dumb  with  emotion  and  rapture,  Adolph  could  only  press 
her  to  his  heart.  He  was  now  convinced  that  he  was  making 
another  as  happy  as  himself.  In  a  few  weeks  his  good  sister, 
who  now  with  a  sort  of  triumph  imparted  her  long  cherished 
convictions  to  the  lovers,  and  praised  her  own  penetration, 
had  the  pleasure  of  celebrating  the  marriage  of  tiie  happy 
pair  in  Festenburg. 


AN  eve,  intensely  beautiful — an  eve 
Calm  as  the  slumber  of  a  lovely  girl 
Dreaming  of  hope.     The  rich  autumnal  woods, 
With  their  innumerable  shades  and  coloring^ 
Or,  like  a  silent  instrument,  at  rest ; 
A  silent  instrument — whereon  the  wind 
Hath  long  forgot  to  play. 


184  THE    HAPPY    HOME. 


STfflS      H?  j5\  !P  IP  IF      HfllWfR 
tiA     eJI*  tia     «SA     iST      iS       «Jk  Jlift     \U     «M.^     Jg    a 

BY    MRS.    EMELINE    S.    SMITH. 

To  make  a  happy  fireside  clime 

To  weans  and  wife, 
Is  the  true  moral  and  sublime 

Of  human  life.  BURNS. 

I  SAW  a  scene,  where  Joy's  bright  hues  were  blended 
With  the  serener  tints  of  Peace  and  Love ; 

It  seemed  a  group  of  fairy  forms,  descended 

From  the  bright  realms  where  poet-dreamers  rove. 

But  though,  all  beautiful  as  some  ideal, 
Wrought  by  the  artist  in  his  happiest  hour, 

'Twas  but  a  page  of  life,  the  true  and  real, 
The  life  made  lovely  by  Affection's  power. 

The  evening  sun-light  through  the  casement  streaming, 
Made  the  sweet  picture  more  divinely  fair, 

Yet  were  the  rosy  rays  less  glad  and  beaming 

Than  the  fond  eyes  that  smiled  and  sparkled  there. 

Three  radiant  faces  !  radiant  with  a  pleasure 
Known,  in  its  fulness,  to  the  good  alone — 

Three  happy  hearts — to  one  delightful  measure 
Thrilling  in  perfect  harmony  of  ton*  ( 


THE    HAPPY    HOME.  166 

As  summer  stars,  in  their  serenest  splendor, 

Shine  down  on  Earth's  fair  flowerets  from  above, 

So  shone  the  mother's  eyes — so  fond,  so  tender — 
On  her  young  child — the  first  fair  flower  of  Love. 

And,  proudly  as  the  morning  sun  advances, 

To  look  on  earth,  when  she  is  glad  and  bright, 
The  happy  father  turns,  with  radiant  glances, 

To  the  two  forms  who  make  his  world  of  Light. 

Well  may  he  proudly  gaze ;  the  blessings  near  him 

Were  won  by  years  of  patient  toil  and  care  ; 
In  tho  dim,  clouded  past,  there  came  to  cheer  him, 

A  vision  of  this  hour  serene  and  fair. 

With  fortune  lowly,  but  with  soul  aspiring — 

Left  lone  and  friendless  in  his  boyhood's  day — 
He  yet,  with  step  unfaltering,  heart  untiring, 

Launched  boldly  forth  upon  life's  devious  way. 

Patient  and  frugal  when  stern  want  assailed  him ; 

Fearless  and  tireless  in  the  darkest  hour, 
He  still  toiled  on — and  hopes  that  never  failed  him 

Were  crowned,  at  last,  by  honor,  wealth  and  power. 

And  now,  'mid  all  the  world's  alluring  pleasures, 

No  higher,  holier  recompense  can  come, 
Than  these  communings  with  his  household  treas:  res, 

These  joys  serene  that  bless  his  happy  he  me. 


lt)6          TRUE  AND  BEAUTIFUL  THOUGHT^ 


A%  WH 

JLfifJJ 

IK  reading  the  works  of  Mrs.  Ellis — works  which  should 
be  found  upon  the  table  of  every  woman — we  meet  with  many 
true  and  beautiful  thoughts  that,  like  precious  stones,  may 
be  removed  from  their  setting,  and  still  shine  with  equal 
brilliancy.  Here  are  a  few  worthy  to  glitter  on  any  page. 

"Not  the  foolish  bird  fluttering  in  the  snares  of  the 
fowler  ;  nor  the  flower  that  has  burst  into  blushing  beauty 
on  the  morning  of  storms ;  nor  the  child  that  has  stolen  to 
the  brink  of  the  precipice  to  play,  can  be  more  melancholy 
objects  of  consideration,  than  an  amiable  and  lovely  woman, 
who  is  drawing  from  the  fountains  of  vanity  and  love,  her 
only  sources  of  happiness  and  hope.  And  yet  who  speaks 
of  her  danger  ?  Those  who  stand  aloof  in  unassailed  secu- 
rity, and  have  never  known  the  insatiable  thirst  of  pampered 
vanity,  nor  fallen  into  the  snare  of  earthly  love  1  Should  the 
deluded  creature  awake  in  a  sense  of  her  own  awful  situa- 
tion, who  rushes  to  the  rescue  ?  She  looks  back  upon  her 
sister  woman,  and  the  strong  arm  of  malevolence  and  envy  is 
put  forth  to  urge  her  to  destruction,  to  accelerate  her  fall. 
She  leans  upon  her  brother  man,  and  he,  more  treacherous 
but  not  less  cruel,  while  he  covers  her  with  the  garment  of 
praise  and  pours  upon  her  head  the  oil  of  joy,  at  the  same 
time  places  on  her  brow  the  poisonod  chaplet,  crying, 
"  Peace,  peace,  where  there  is  no  peace."  Like  the  priests 


TRUE    AND    BEAUTIFUL    THOUGHTS.  167 

of  old,  who  with  merriment  and  dance  and  song,  led  forth 
the  unconscious  victim  wreathed  with  flowers,  to  bleed  upon 
the  altar  of  sacrifice." 

"  Oh !  it  is  a  wearisome,  heartless,  and  life-spending  ser- 
vice, to  live  by  the  power  of  pleasing  !  The  miner  has  his 
stated  portion  doled  out  to  him,  and  digs  in  undisturbed  se- 
curity ;  and  the  galley-slave  knows,  while  he  toils  at  the  oar, 
that  the  utmost  stretch  of  his  sinews,  is  all  that  his  tyrant 
master  can  require  ;  but  the  miserable  child  of  genius,  who 
feels  that  he  must  starve  and  shiver  in  the  shade,  or  tax  his 
talents,  and  sharpen  his  wit,  and  torture  his  sensibility,  to 
purchase  the  genial  smiles  of  patronage :  may  not  his  life  be 
compared  to  the  lingering  death  of  the  dolphin,  whose  dying 
agonies  produce  those  beautiful  varieties  of  color — which  as- 
tonish the  delighted  beholder  ?  " 

"  Excitement  is  not  the  natural  food  of  the  human  mind. 
It  may,  for  a  while,  give  life  to  imagination,  and  quicken  sen- 
sibility ;  but  like  other  stimulants,  it  is  destructive  both  to 
the  health  of  the  body,  and  to  the  soundness  of  the  mind  ; 
and  like  other  stimulants,  it  leaves  behind  an  aching  void." 

"  There  are  those  who  shut  themselves  up  in  retirement, 
thinking  that  danger  exists  only  in  the  pleasures  of  the 
world,  and  safety  in  their  exclusion.  But  let  them  look  well 
to  the  choice  they  have  made,  and  ask,  whether  the  evils  of 
solitude  may  not  be  as  offensive  in  the  sight  of  their  Creator 
as  those  of  society.  For  themselves,  they  have  an  un- 
doubted right,  both  to  know,  and  to  choose,  what  is  best ; 
but  there  are  hearts  that  can  bear  witness  to  the  sins  of  soli- 
tude ;  to  the  sins,  and  the  sufferings  too. 

"  Hearts,  that  have  been  weighed  down  with  the  leader) 


168          TRUE  AND  BEAUTIFUL  THOUGHTS. 

stupor  of  melancholy,  until  every  affection  was  swallowed  up 
in  self,  every  feeling  lost  in  the  ocean  of  misery,  from 
whence  no  gentle  dew  is  exhaled,  as  an  offering  of  gratitude 
to  Heaven." 

"  Ah  !  that  we  could  always  compel  ourselves  to  institute 
a  strict,  impartial,  and  thorough  investigation,  into  the 
causes  of  our  unhappiness.  That  we  would  make  an  en- 
quiry which  admits  of  no  tampering,  why  we  are  not,  as  the 
merciful  Author  of  our  being  designed  we  should  be,  num- 
bering our  blessings  and  counting  the  favors  which  his  gra- 
cious hand  bestows  upon  us  ?  Would  not  such  an  enquiry 
produce  the  conviction,  that  we  are  not  giving  up  the  whole 
heart  to  him,  who  has  an  undoubted  right  to  rule  over  it  1 
That  we  are  making  no  better  than  a  conditional  covenant, 
that,  if  he  will  grant  us  some  particular  request,  we  will 
then  serve  him  >  or,  turning  to  idols  of  perishable  clay, 
which  in  a  single  moment  may  be  broken  into  fragments  at 
our  feet." 

"  Let  not  those  who  make  great  sacrifices  to  duty,  be  led 
on  by  the  hope  of  immediate  reward.  When  a  limb  is  se- 
vered from  the  human  body,  the  first  terrible  stroke  is  not 
all  that  has  to  be  borne  ;  there  are  after  seasons  of  pain  and 
suffering,  that  must,  inevitably,  be  endured  :  and  when  an 
idol  of  clay  is  broken  in  the  dust,  it  requires  time  for  hum- 
bling reflection,  before  its  votaries  can  be  convinced  of  the 
reality." 

"  Those  who  would  devote  themselves  to  the  service  of 
their  fellow-creatures,  must  be  prepared  for  many  an  un- 
grateful return — for  many  a  heart-rending  repulse  ;  to 
which,  nothing  but  the  consciousness  of  being  about  their 


TRUE  AND  BEAUTIFUL  THOUGHTS.          169 

Master's  business,  can  reconcile  the  sensitive  mind.  Those 
who  would  save  a  sufferer  from  death,  must  often  present  an 
unwelcome  draught  to  lips  that  loathe  its  bitterness  ;  and 
those  who  would  save  a  soul  from  sin,  must  bear  with  that 
rebellious  soul  in  all  its  struggles  to  return  ;  for  it  is  not  by 
one  tremendous  effort  that  the  bonds  of  earthly  passion  can 
be  broken.  The  work  in  which  they  are  engaged,  is  a  work  of 
patience,- not  of  triumph  ;  and  there  must  be  long  seasons  of 
painful  endurance,  of  watchfulness  and  prayer,  which  nothing 
but  a  deep  and  devoted  love  to  the  heavenly  Father,  whose  ser- 
vice they  are  engaged  in,  can  possibly  enable  them  to  sustain." 
"  Oh !  that  women  would  be  faithful  to  themselves  !  It 
makes  the  heart  bleed  to  think  that  these  high-souled  beings, 
who  stand  forth  in  the  hour  of  severe  and  dreadful  trial, 
armed  with  a  magnanimity  that  knows  no  fear  ;  with  enthu- 
siasm that  has  no  sordid  alloy ;  with  patience  that  would 
support  a  martyr ;  with  generosity  that  a  patriot  might  be 
proud  to  borrow  ;  and  feeling  that  might  shine  as  a  wreath 
of  beauty,  over  the  temples  of  a  dying  saint ; — it  makes  the 
heart  bleed  to  think,  that  the  noble  virtue  of  woman's  cha- 
racter should  be  veiled  and  obscured  by  the  taint  of  weak 
vanity,  and  lost  in  the  base  love  of  flirtation ;  making  her- 
self the  mockery  of  the  multitude,  instead  of  acting  the  sim- 
ple and  dignified  part  of  the  friend,  the  wife,  or  the  mother ; 
degrading  her  own  nature,  by  flaunting  in  the  public  eye  the 
semblance  of  affection,  while  its  sweet  soul  is  wanting ; 
polluting  the  altar  of  love  by  offering  up  the  ashes  of  a 
wasted  heart.  Oh !  woman,  woman  !  thousands  have  been 
beguiled  by  this  thy  folly,  but  thou  hast  ever  been  the 
deepest  sufferer  J-'3 


. 

170  BREAD    IN    THE    WINTER    NIGHT. 


S13&9    II 


BY     KATE     SUTHERLAND. 

"Winter  days  and  nights  may  bury  beneath  their  pall  of  snow  the  sown  corn  ;  but, 
when  the  spring  arrives,  it  will  be  found  equally  true,  that  '  there  grows  much  bread 
in  the  winter  night.'"  —  Miss  BRKMER. 

YES,  it  is  true,  spiritually  as  well  as  naturally,  that  there 
grows  much  bread  in  the  winter  night.  How  better  can  I 
illustrate  this  than  by  giving  a  passage  or  two  from  the  pri- 
vate history  of  a  dear  friend  whose  bright  summer  declined 
into  sober  autumn  ;  whose  autumn  gave  place  to  winter, 
with  its  brief  days,  its  long,  long  nights,  its  cold,  concealing 
snows,  and  whose  dreary  winter  was  at  length  succeeded  by 
the  warm  and  cheering  spring-time.  There  grew  much 
bread  in  her  winter  night. 

Sunlight  was  upon  the  head  and  flowers  along  the  path 
of  my  young  friend,  Ella  Linden.  Her  heart  was  too  full 
of  its  own  joys  to  feel  sympathy  for  others.  There  were  so 
many  blossoms  around  her  feet,  that  she  could  not  realize 
the  fact  that  others  were  moving  wearily  along  rough  and 
barren  ways,  uncheered  by  a  glimpse  of  sunshine,  and  unre- 
freshed  by  the  grateful  odor  of  a  single  flower. 

"  Come,  Ella,3'  said  I  to  her  one  day,  "  I  want  you  to  go 
with  me  to  see  a  poor  woman  in  trouble.  I  am  sure  you  will 
feel  sympathy  for  her,  and  that  this  sympathy  will  inspire 


BREAD    IN    THE    WINTER    NIGHT.  171 

you  with  a  wish  to  do  for  her  some  good  office :  and  she 
needs  all  the  kindness  that  generous  hearts  may  feel 
prompted  to  bestow." 

"  Excuse  me,  Kate,"  she  returned  a  Attle  coldly.  "  I 
have  no  taste  for  any  thing  of  this  kind.  I  never  like  to 
meet  people  who  are  in  trouble.  If  she  is  in  want,  I  will 
give  you  something  for  her." 

"  She  stands  in  ns  pressing  need  of  charity.  But  she 
wants  kindness  and  sympathy  from  those  who  can  feel  for 
her.  Try  and  conquer  this  reluctance  you  have  and  go  with 
me.  It  will  do  both  you  and  her  good." 

But  Ella  shook  her  head  and  replied  : 

"  No,  no,  Kate.  If  you  can  do  her  any  good,  go  and  see 
her ;  but,  as  I  said  before,  I  have  no  taste  for  any  thing  of 
this  kind." 

u  No  taste  for  wiping  a  tear  from  the  eye  of  a  weeping 
sister?" 

"  If  you  please  to  say  so." 

"  You  may  live  to  feel  differently,  Ella." 

"  Then  I  will  act  differently,"  was  her  lightly-spoken 
reply. 

Often  did  I  thus  seek  to  win  her  thoughts  away  from  the 
mere  pleasures  of  life,  and  awaken  in  her  mind  sympathy  for 
others.  But  my  words,  like  seed  cast  upon  a  sterile  soil, 
showed  no  signs  of  germination.  For  years  her  life  was  a 
gay  round  of  pleasure.  The  clouds  gathered  over  her  sky, 
and  storms  broke  upon  her  head.  After  the  fierce  war  of 
elements  had  subsided,  and  the  atmosphere  became  calm 
again,  the*  sun  shone  out,  but  not  with  his  wonted  fervor, 
and  his  stay  above  the  horizon  was  brief.  It  was  winter 


172  BREAD  IN  THE  WINTER  NIGHT. 


Briefer  still  became  the  days,  and  feebler  the  sunshine,  until 
over  my  young  friend's  heart  was  thrown  a  snowy  pall,  chill 
mg  it  to  the  centre. 

There  were  many  of  her  old  companions  and  friends,  who 
like  her,  had  no  taste  for  any  thing  but  flowers  and  sun 
shine  ;  and  they  turned  coldly  from  her  at  the  very  time 
when  she  most  needed  their  warmest  sympathies. 

As  in  the  summer  light  of  joy,  so  in  the  wintry  gloom  of 
affliction  and  adversity,  Ella  only  thought  of  herself.  I* 
was  in  vain  that  I  tried  to  lift  her  mind  above  its  own 
wretchedness,  and  interest  it  in  the  doing  of  something  for 
others. 

"  I  have  trouble  enough  of  my  own ;  grief  enough  of  my 
own ! "  she  wrould  answer  me. 

"  But  try  and  forget  these,"  I  would  sometimes  urge  her. 
"  Stretch  forth  your  hand  and  lift  some  burthen  from  an  op- 
pressed heart,  and  your  own  will  feel  lighter.53 

I  spoke  without  effect.  With  her  head  bowed  upon  her 
bosom,  Ella  passed  through  her  dreary  winter.  Spring  at 
length  came.  The  hand  of  sorrow  and  adversity  that  lay 
so  heavily  upon  her  heart,  was  lifted  up  ;  its  pulsations  be- 
came freer,  and  the  life-blood  flowed  in  warmer  currents 
through  her  veins.  Then  it  was  apparent  that,  although  the 
sown  grain  had  been  long  buried  beneath  a  pall  of  snow,  yet 
much  bread  had  grown  in  the  winter  night — many  good  af- 
fections had  taken  root  in  her  heart,  and  were  now  shooting 
up  their  green  blades  in  the  warm  sunshine. 

But,  to  descend  into  plain  prose.  The  death  of  Ella's 
mother,  and  the  loss  of  property  by  her  father,  changed  all 
from  brightness  into  gloom.  Following  this,  came  the  deser- 


BREAD    IN    THE    WINTER    NIGHT.  173 

feiou  of  friend  and  lover.  The  pure  waters  of  affection,  so 
freely  poured  out,  instead  of  flowing  in  a  bright  and  fertiliz- 
ing current,  were  frozen  as  they  fell.  The  winter  was  long 
and  dreary,  and  full  of  suffering.  But  there  came,  at  length, 
a  change. 

Mr.  Linden  was  a  man  of  great  force  of  mind  and  business 
acumen.  From  the  wreck  of  his  fortune  he  had  been  able  to 
save  a  small  remnant.  This  formed  the  basis  of  new  opera- 
tions in  trade,  that  were  successful  as  far  as  they  went. 
Gradually  there  was  an  increase  of  business,  and  the  promise 
of  a  still  greater  increase  in  the  future.  But  still,  the  in- 
come was  small,  and  the  style  in  which  his  family  lived  ex- 
ceedingly humble.  Ella  was  the  oldest  of  three  children, 
and  the  cares  of  the  household,  since  her  mother's  death,  de- 
volved upon  her.  For  a  long  time  she  had  no  affection  for 
the  duties  that  were  forced  upon  her,  but  entered  into  and 
performed  them  under  the  pressure  of  necessity. 

For  two  years  they  lived  humbly  and  in  strict  retirement. 
A  period  so  long  gave  ample  time  for  Ella's  mind  to  acquire 
a  healthier  tone  of  thinking  and  feeling.  First,  she  had 
been  touched  with  a  sense  of  her  father's  lonely  condition 
since  her  mother's  death,  and  this  led  her  to  regard  him 
with  a  tenderer  affection,  and  to-  seek  by  every  means  in  her 
power  to  make  their  home  cheerful  and  pleasant.  She 
thought  of  what  his  wants  might  be  and  endeavored  to  sup- 
ply them.  If  he  looked  gloomy,  she  strove  by  act  or  word 
*;o  dispel  the  gloom.  To  her  younger  sisters  she  endeav- 
Ted  more  and  more  fully  every  day,  after  her  mind  had 
wakened  to  a  true  perception  of  her  duties,  to  supply  the 
place  of  their  mother.  As  she  turned  lovingly  toward  them, 


174  BREAD    I>     THE    WINTER    NIGHT. 

they  turned,  like  flowers  to  the  sun,  toward  her,  and  re- 
flected back,  smilingly,  her  warm  affection. 

At  the  end  of  two  years  the  coldness  and  gloom  of  winter 
passed  fully  away,  and  not  even  a  snow-wreath  lay  upon  the 
ground.  Mr.  Linden's  business  efforts  had  been  crowned 
with  unexpected  success,  and  he  was  able  to  remove  his  little 
family  into  a  larger  and  more  comfortable  dwelling.  A  few 
weeks  after  this  change  had  taken  place,  I  called  to  see  Ella, 
with  whom  I  had  been  in  constant  intercourse  during  her 
dark  days  of  affliction  and  trial,  which  had  continued,  until 
the  work  which  they  had  been  designed  to  effect,  was  fully 
completed.  I  found  her  cheerful ;  I  might  almost  say, 
happy.  But  she  was  not  idle,  nor  was  she  thinking  of  and 
caring  for  herself.  Her  love  for  her  father  and  sisters  ex- 
tinguished all  selfish  feelings,  and  ever  prompted  her  to  some 
new  effort  for  their  comfort  or  happiness ;  and  her  own 
reward  was  sweet. 

"  You  remember  Florence  Dale  ?"  I  said  to  her  after  we 
had  been  conversing  some  time. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  She  was  one  of  my  most  intimate  friends.  I 
always  liked  Florence.  But  with  the  rest,  when  adversity 
came,  she  grew  cold  toward  me  and  seemed  to  forget  that  I 
even  lived." 

"  Poor  Florence  !  "  I  said.  "  Her  days  of  sunshine  have 
departed.  Her  father  died  some  time  ago,  and  to-day  I  hear 
that  he  died  insolvent.  Already  his  widow  and  children 
have  been  compelled  to  remove  from  their  luxurious  home 
and  sink  down  into  obscurity,  and  I  fear  privation,  if  not 
want." 

u  Poor  Florence  ! "  ejaculated  Ella,  tears  filling  her  eyes. 


BREAD    IN    THE    WINTER    NIGHT.  175 

"  I  will  see  her,  for  I  know  that  I  can  speak  words  of  com- 
fort and  hope.  Now  I  can  go  to  her.  Have  you  seen 
her?" 

"  No,  not  yet,"  I  replied. 

"  Shall  we  not  go  together  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  like." 

"  Let  us  go  now,  Kate,"  said  the  sympathizing  girl, 
earnestly,  while  her  face  was  lit  up  with  a  glow  of  unselfish 
affection.  a  Few  will  follow  her  in  her  sad  exile  from  old 
associations  and  friends  ;  and  there  will  be  few,  if  any,  to  lift 
up  her  bowed  head  or  speak  a  word  of  comfort.  I  have 
passed  through  it  all,  Kate,  and  I  know  what  it  is." 

Half  an  hour  afterward  we  stood  at  the  door  of  a  small 
dwelling.  There  were  few  appearances  of  comfort  about  it, 
and  nothing  of  elegance.  We  were  admitted  by  a  small 
colored  girl,  the  only  domestic  as  we  afterward  learned. 
Ella  asked  for  Florence,  and  sent  up  both  her  own  name  and 
mine.  In  about  ten  minutes  Florence  appeared,  and  received 
us  with  distant  formality.  There  was  something  cold  and 
repulsive  in  her  manner,  as  if  she  regarded  us  not  as  friends, 
but  as  those  who  felt  a  real  pleasure  in  witnessing  her  down- 
fall, and  had  come  to  ascertain  how  really  low  it  was.  Ella 
did  not  seem  to  perceive  this,  but  grasped  the  young  girl's 
hand  warmly,  and  said — 

"  It's  a  pleasure  for  me  to  meet  with  you,  Florence,  and 
to  hold  your  hand  in  mine  once  more  ;  though  I  cannot  but 
wish  that  it  came  under  different  circumstances.  It  is  less 
than  an  hour  since  I  heard  of  the  affliction  you  have  been 
called  to  endure,  and  I  have  come  to  ask  the  privilege  of 
renewing  the  friendly  relations  that  once  existed  between 


176  BREAD    IN    THE    WINTER    NIGHT. 


us  ;  for  I  have  been  in  the  deep  waters  through  which  you  are 
now  passing.  I  have  suffered  all  that  you  are  now  suffering, 
and  can,  therefore,  enter  into  your  heart  and  feel  with  you." 

Florence  looked  into  the  face  of  Ella  as  she  thus  spoke, 
her  countenance  still  cold,  and  her  manner  repellant. 

"  Let  us  be  friends,  as  of  old,  Florence.  Old  friends  are 
the  best  friends." 

I  saw  the  young  girl's  lips  begin  to  quiver.  Ella  still  held 
her  hand  and  looked  earnestly  into  her  face.  A  moment 
passed,  and  then  Florence  sunk,  sobbing,  upon  the  breast  of 
Ella. 

"  Bread  in  the  winter  night,"  I  could  not  help  murmur- 
ing, as  I  thought  of  Miss  Bremer's  beautiful  allusion  to  the 
growth  of  good  affections  in  the  winter  of  adversity  and 
affliction. 

Long  and  earnest  was  the  conversation  that  passed  between 
Ella  and  Florence,  after  the  latter  grew  calm.  I  had  tried  to 
speak  many  words  of  assurance  and  comfort  to  Ella  in  her 
winter  night,  but  now  I  felt  how  cold  they  were,  and  won- 
dered not  that  they  had  glanced  back  from  her  heart  like 
sunbeams  from  an  icy  rock.  She  spoke  from  a  deeply 
realizing  sense  of  what  her  friend  was  suffering  ;  /  merely 
uttered  cold  truths  from  my  understanding.  I  never  saw 
the  face  of  Ella  so  beautiful  as  while  she  strove,  with  a  loving 
spirit,  to  fill  the  mind  of  her  young  friend  with  hope  in  the 
future,  through  the  means  of  duties  earnestly  done  in  the 
present. 

"  Come  and  see  me  again,  won't  you  ?"  Florence  said,  as 
she  stood,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  almost  clinging  to  the  hand 
of  Ella.  We  were  about  departing. 


BREAD    IN    THE    WINTER   NIGHT.  177 

u  Yes,  frequently ;  and  you  must  not  fail  to  return  my 
visit.  It  will  do  us  both  good  to  meet  often." 

And  they  did  meet  often.  Ella  always  saying  something 
to  give  strength  to  the  mind  of  her  young  friend  or  to  sus- 
tain it  with  hope.  The  circumstances  of  Mrs.  Dale  were 
much  straitened  and  she  had  no  income.  In  her  own  grief 
at  the  death  of  her  father  and  in  her  own  sufferings,  Florence 
had  forgotten  that  to  her  mother's  sorrow  was  added  a  heavy 
burden  of  care ;  nor  did  she  think  of  it  until  prompted  by 
Ella,  who  suggested  whether  it  were  not  in  her  power  to 
lighten  this  burden. 

"  What  can  I  do,  Ella,  to  lighten  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Your  mother  has  no  income  ?  " 

"  None  at  all." 

"  And  but  a  small  remnant  of  money  from  your  father's 
estate  ? " 

"  Only  a  few  hundred  dollars." 

"  Which  will  soon  be  exhausted.  Now,  is  it  not  in  your 
power  to  lift  from  her  heart  a  mountain  weight  by  using  a 
talent  that  you  possess,  and  thereby  earning  something 
toward  the  support  of  the  family  ?  I  know  of  no  one  more 
capable  of  giving  music  lessons  than  you  are." 

The  face  of  Florence  crimsoned  over  instantly. 

"  You  cannot  be  in  earnest ! "  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  sur- 
prise— almost  displeasure. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  Ella  asked,  mildly.  "  Is  there  any  thing 
\vrong  in  wThat  I  suggest  1 " 

"  Me,  become  a  music  teacher  ! " 

"  Deeply  thankful  should  you  be,  my  dear  friend,"  Ella 
eaid,  with  much  seriousness,  "  that  you  have  the  ability  to 


178  BREAD    IN    THE    WINTER    NIGHT. 

render  your  mother  most  important  aid  in  the  support  of  a 
large  family.  To  be  useful,  Florence,  is  in  reality  the 
highest  honor  to  which  any  one  can  attain.  Think  of  your 
mother's  position.  Think  of  your  younger  brothers  and 
sisters,  who  need  to  be  sustained  and  educated,  and  I  am  sure 
love  will  prompt  you  to  seek  eagerly  for  some  means  by 
which  you  can  aid  your  mother,  and  help  to  support  and 
educate  them.  You  need  not  seek  far.  The  means  are  in 
your  hands." 

For  a  time  Florence  could  not  bear  to  think  of  what  Ella 
proposed.  But  gradually  her  mind  gained  strength  and  her 
perceptions  became  clearer.  She  not  only  saw,  but  felt  that 
her  friend  was  right.  To  seek  employment  as  a  music 
teacher,  and  to  enter  upon  the  duties  she  had  voluntarily 
taken  upon  herself  was  a  great  trial  to  Florence.  But  the 
high  end  she  had  in  view  sustained  her.  Instead  of  feeling 
humbled  in  her  new  vocation  after  she  had  entered  upon  it, 
her  mind  was  elevated  and  sustained  by  a  calm,  ever  abiding 
consciousness  that  she  was  doing  what  was  right.  The  noble, 
unselfish  spirit  of  Florence,  gave  new  life  to  her  mother's 
heart,  and  shot  a  ray  of  light  across  her  sky,  where  all  had 
been  darkness. 

All  this  I  noticed  with  pleasure.  I  saw  how,  in  reverses 
and  afflictions,  the  mind  is  opened  more  interiorly,  and  filled 
with  better  affections,  and  truer  sympathies,  and  I  understood 
more  clearly  than  I  had  ever  done  before,  the  meaning  of 
the  sentiment — "  There  grows  much  bread  in  the  winter 
night." 

Time  did  its  appropriate  work  for  both  Ella  and  Florence. 
A  few  years  have  passed  since  their  winter  days  and  nights. 


A    BEAUTIFUL    THOUGHT.  179 

All  that  need  be  said  of  them  is,  that  both  are  happier  and 
more  useful  than  they  were  before,  or  could  possibly  have 
been  without  affliction.  There  grew  much  bread  in  their 
winter  night. 


CONCEIVE  an  arch  wanting  only  the  keystone,  and  still 
supported  by  the  centring  without  which  it  would  fall  into  a 
planless  heap.  It  is  now  held  up  merely  by  the  supports 
beneath  it.  Add  the  keystone,  and  it  will  stand  a  thousand 
years,  although  every  prop  should  be  shattered  or  fall  in 
dust.  Now,  it  is  idle  to  say  that  this  change  in  the  principle 
of  the  structure  was  accomplished  by  the  mere  addition  of  one 
more  stone.  The  difference  is  not  only  that  of  increase,  but 
also  that  of  almost  magical  transmutation.  No  stone  before 
helped  to  hold  up  its  neighbor,  and  each  having  its  own  prop, 
any  one  might  have  been  removed  without  shaking  the  sup- 
port of  the  others.  Now,  each  is  essential  to  the  whole, 
which  is  sustained  not  from  without  but  by  an  inward  law. 
So  it  is  with  religion.  It  not  only  adds  a  new  feeling  and 
sanction  to  those  previously  existing  in  the  mind,  but  unites 
them  by  a  different  kind  of  force,  and  one  for  the  reception 
of  which  all  the  invisible  frame  was  prepared  and  planned, 
though  it  may  stand  for  years  unfinished,  upheld  by  outward 
and  temporary  appliances,  and  manifesting  its  want  of  the 
true  bond  and  centre  which  it  has  not  yet  received. 


180  I    AM    NOT    ALL    ALONE. 


2   AM   Wit   All   Alfill. 

BY     MRS.     MARY     ARTHUR. 

I  AM  not  all  alone — 

Though  in  the  halls  where  mirth  and  music  meet 
No  love-lit  eye  hails  my  returning  feet ; 

Nor,  when  the  wine-cup  gleams  'midst  mirth  and  song, 
Doth  gentle  voice  from  out  the  festal  throng 
Welcome  the  weary  one. 

I  am  not  all  alone — 

Though,  when  in  the  glad  homes  of  men  I  stray, 
All  brows  are  veiled  and  faces  turned  away ; 
Although,  for  me,  no  child  hath  fond  caress, 
And  woman's  voice  is  cold  and  passionless, 
And  mute  affection's  tone. 

For  Thou  art  with  me  still ; 
Thy  wisdom  is  a  shield  to  guard  my  way, 
Thy  love  a  fire  by  night,  a  cloud  by  day —    . 
Where  can  I  wander  ?  in  what  desert  place, 
That  with  Thy  mercy  and  Thy  loving  grace, 
Thou  dost  not  fill  ? 

Be  near  Thy  fainting  Son  ! 
Redeemer !  Father !  cheer  me  with  Thy  voice, 
Make  Thou  my  spirit  in  Thy  love  rejoice ; 
Nearest,  still  nearest  in  temptation's  hour, 
Teach  me  to  feel  that,  'neath  Thy  guiding  power, 

I  cannot  be  alone 
WASEHSOTON,    £>.  C 


ROCK    ISLAND.  181 


BY     A.     H.     MAX  FIELD. 

No  place  on  the  Mississippi  presents  so  much  picturesque 
scenery  and  natural  beauty  as  Rock  Island.  This  and  the 
immediate  vicinity,  has  been,  for  above  a  century,  the  para- 
dise and  pleasure-ground  of  the  aborigines.  Black  Hawk, 
in  his  memoirs,  describes  it  in  the  glowing  language  of  a 
poet : — 

"  A  good  spirit  had  care  of  this  island,  who  lived  in  a 
cave  immediately  under  the  place  where  the  fort  now  stands, 
and  has  often  been  seen  by  our  people.  He  was  white,  with 
wings  like  a  swan,  but  ten  times  larger.  We  were  particu- 
lar not  to  make  ,much  noise  in  that  part  of  the  island  for 
fear  oT  disturbing  him.  But  the  noise  of  the  fort  has  driven 
him  away,  and  no  doubt  a  bad  spirit  has  taken  his  place  ! " 

The  United  States'  garrison  on  the  lower  point,  was 
erected  soon  after  the  close  of  the  late  war  with  England ; 
and  the  post  has  since  been  the  scene  of  many  treaties  and 
other  official  acts  by  officers  and  agents  of  the  general  gov- 
ernment. 

I  was  at  this  place  on  the  eveitepg  of  the  2d  Sept.  1838, 
when  an  immense  multitude  of  the  natives  had  assembled  to 
receive  payment  for  their  lands.  The  evening  was  such  as 
none  but  poets  can  fully  appreciate.  It  was  clear,  calm,  se 


182  ROCK    ISLAND. 


rene,  and  solemn  ;  illuminated  by  the  full  moon  !  The  na- 
tives seemed  to  rejoice  in  their  sphere  of  being,  though  their 
existence  had  been  harassed  much  by  civilized  oppression. 
They  formed  themselves  into  a  large  ring,  in  the  middle  of 
which  were  several  females  seated  on  the  ground.  The 
males,  forming  a  circle,  danced  round-and-round  to  a  most 
melodious  air,  accompanied  by  motions  and  gestures  peculiar 
to  themselves.  The  squaws,  in  the  centre,  kept  time  by 
beating  on  a  kind  of  drum  and  joining  in  the  chorus  with 
their  treble  voices.  Others,  not  far  remote,  were  seen  bu- 
sily weaving  rush  carpets  by  moonlight. 

The  serene  beauty  of  the  night,  the  solemnity  of  the 
music,  and  the  contemplation  of  the  beings  around  me,  con- 
spired to  make  the  scene  strikingly  impressive.  The  lan- 
guage of  their  song,  which  for  the  most  part  seemed  extem- 
pore, was  not  reduced  to  exact  numbers  like  English  lyric 
verse,  and  yet  was  much  more  regular  in  its  movement  than 
Ossian.  The  substance  of  the  words  seemed  to  evince  a  de- 
sign strongly  to  impress  a  few  great  truths,  rather  than  any 
connected  theory  of  ethics  or  philosophy.  This  will  account 
for  the  seeming  tautology  in  the  translation,  which  may  at 
first  seem  barren  of  diversity.  By  aid  of  a  French  inter- 
preter, I  took  notes  on  the  spot,  and  have,  in  the  following 
lines,  attempted  to  give  the  substance  of  the  words,  in  a 
measure  and  manner  as  nearly  as  possible,  corresponding  to 
the  simplicity  of  the  original  air. 


ROCK    ISLAND.  183 


INDIAN     PHILOSOPHY. 

WE  all  are  happy,  free  and  blest ; 
We're  happy  in  our  sphere  to  rest : — 
No  future  being  need  we  fear, 
For  all  are  happy  in  their  sphere. 

Unnumbered  grades  of  being  move 
Around,  within,  below,  above  ; 
Nature,  their  author  and  their  friend, 

Does  equal  bliss  to  each  extend  ! 

/ 

Almighty  nature,  "  fixed  as  fate," 
Has  made  all  beings  for  their  state, 
They  all  are  blessed,  content  and  free, 
Both  happy  they,  and  happy  we ! 

The  same  vast  wisdom  is  displayed 
In  forms  whose  world's  a  grassy  blade 
Then  sure  in  reason's  eye  they  are 
Like  objects  of -wise  nature's  care  ! 

We  are  but  bubbles  on  the  sea 
Of  matter,  and  must  shortly  be 
Dissolved,  and  to  that  sea  again 
Return,  like  all  the  insect  train  ! 

Our  particles  may  live  again, 
Re-organized  in  nature's  chain  ; 
But  future  being  none  need  fear, 
For  each  is  happy  in  its  sphere ! 

CHORUS. 

They  all  are  blessed,  content  and  free  j 
Both  happy  they,  and  happy  we ! 


184         SALLY  LYON'S  VISIT  TO  THE  ALE-HOUSE. 


FIRST  AND  LAST  VISIT  TO  THE  ALE-HOUSE * 

BY    T  .     S.     ARTHUR. 

WHEN  Sally  Lester  gave  her  hand  in  marriage  to  Ralph 
Lyon,  she  was  a  delicate,  timid  girl  of  eighteen,  who  had 
passed  the  spring-time  of  life  happily  beneath  her  father's 
roof.  To  her,  care,  anxiety  and  trouble  were  yet  strangers. 
The  first  few  years  of  her  married  life  passed  happily — for 
Ralph  was  one  of  the  kindest  of  husbands,  and  suffered  his 
wife  to  lean  upon  him  so  steadily,  that  the  native  strength 
of  her  own  character  remained  undeveloped. 

Ralph  Lyon  was  an  industrious  mechanic,  who  always  had 
steady  work  and  good  wages.  Still,  he  did  not  seem  to  get 
ahead  as  some  others  did,  notwithstanding  Sally  was  a  fru- 
gal wife,  and  did  all  her  own  work,  instead  of  putting  him  to 
the  expense  of  help  in  the  family.  Of  course,  this  being  the 
case,  it  was  evident  that  there  was  a  leak  somewhere,  but 
where  it  was  neither  Ralph  nor  his  wife  could  tell. 

"  Thomas  Jones  has  bought  the  piece  of  ground  next 
to  his  cottage,"  said  Ralph  one  day  to  Sally,  "and  says 
that  next  year  he  hopes  to  be  able  to  put  up  a  small  frame- 

*  This  story  is  founded  upon  a  brief  narrative  which  met  the  author's  eye  in  an  En£ 
iish  newspajpe-: 


SALLY    LYOVS    VISIT   TO    THE    ALE-HOUSE.  185 

house,  big  enough  for  them  to  live  in.  He  paid  sixty  dollars 
for  the  lot,  arid  it  is  at  least  a  quarter  of  an  acre.  He  is 
going  to  put  it  all  in  garden  this  spring,  and  says  he  will 
raise  enough  to  give  him  potatoes,  and  other  vegetables  for  a 
year  to  come.  It  puzzles  me  to  know  how  he  saves  money. 
He  doesn't  get  any  better  wages  than  I  do,  and  his  family  is 
quite  as  large." 

"  I  am  sure,"  returned  Sally,  who  felt  that  there  was 
something  like  a  reflection  upon  her  in  what  her  husband 
said,  "  that  Nancy  Jones  doesn't  spend  her  husband's  earn- 
ings more  frugally  than  I  do  mine.  Every  week  she  has  a 
woman  to  help  her  wash,  and  I  do  it  all  myself." 

"  I  am  sure  it  is  n't  your  fault — at  least  I  don't  think  it 
is,"  replied  Ralph  ;  "  but  something  is  wrong  somewhere. 
I  don't  spend  any  thing  at  all,  except  for  a  glass  or  two 
every  day,  and  a  little  tobacco ;  and  this,  of  course,  couldn't 
make  the  difference." 

Sally  said  nothing.  A  few  glasses  a-day  and  tobacco,  she 
knew,  must  cost  something,  though,  like  her  husband,  she 
did  not  believe  it  would  make  the  difference  of  buying  a 
quarter  of  an  acre  of  ground,  and  building  a  snug  cottage  in 
the  course  of  a  few  years. 

Let  us  see  how  this  is.  Perhaps  we  can  find  out  the  leak 
that  wasted  the  substance  of  Ralph  Lyon.  He  never  drank 
less  than  three  glasses  a-day  and  sometimes  four ;  and  his 
tobacco  cost,  for  smoking  and  chewing,  just  twelve  and  a 
half  cents  a  week.  Now,  how  much  would  all  this  amount  to  7 
Why,  to  just  sixty-five  dollars  a  year,  provided  but  three 
glasses  a-day  were  taken,  and  nothing  was  spent  in  treating 
a  friend  But  the  limit  was  not  always  observed,  and  the 


188 


fact  that  she  loved  Ralph  tenderly,  notwithstanding  his 
errors.  When  he  came  home  in  liquor,  she  did  not  chide 
him,  nor  did  she  say  any  thing  to  him  about  it  when  he  was 
sober;  for  then  he  appeared  so  ashamed  and  cut  down, 
that  she  could  not  find  it  in  her  heart  to  utter  a  single 
word. 

One  day  she  was  alarmed  by  a  message  from  Ralph  that 
he  had  been  arrested,  while  at  his  work,  for.  debt,  by  his 
landlord,  who  was  going  to  throw  him  in  jail.  They  now 
owed  him  over  twenty  dollars.  The  idea  of  her  husband 
being  thrown  into  a  jail  was  terrible  to  poor  Mrs.  Lyon. 
She  asked  a  kind  neighbor  to  take  care  of  her  children  for 
her,  and  then  putting  on  her  bocnet,  she  almost  flew  to  the 
magistrate's  office.  There  was  Ralph,  with  an  officer  by  his 
side  ready  to  remove  him  to  prison. 

"  You  shan't  take  my  husband  to  jail,"  she  said,  wildly, 
when  she  saw  the  real  aspect  of  things,  clinging  fast  hold  of 
Ralph.  "  Nobody  shall  take  him  to  jail." 

"  I  am  sorry,  my  good  woman,"  said  the  magistrate,  "  to 
do  so,  but  it  can't  be  helped.  The  debt  must  be  paid,  or 
your  husband  will  have  to  go  to  jail.  I  have  no  discretion 
in  the  matter.  Can  you  find  means  to  pay  the  debt  ?  If 
not,  perhaps  you  had  better  go  and  see  your  landlord  ;  you 
may  prevail  on  him  to  wait  a  little  longer  for  his  money,  and 
not  send  your  husband  to  jail." 

"  Yes,  Sally,  do  go  and  see  him,"  said  Ralph ;  "  I  am 
sure  he  will  relent  when  he  sees  you." 

Mrs.  Lyon  let  go  the  arm  of  her  husband,  and,  darting 
from  the  office,  ran  at  full  speed  to  the  house  of  their  land- 
lord. « 


SALLY    LYON'S    VISIT    TC    THE    ALE-HOUSE.  189 

"  Oh,  sir ! "  she  exclaimed,  "  you  cannot,  you  will  not 
send  my  husband  to  jail." 

"  I  both  can  and  will,"  was  the  gruff  reply.  "  A  man 
who  drinks  up  his  earnings  as  he  does,  and  then,  when  quar- 
ter-day comes,  can't  pay  his  rent,  deserves  to  go  to  jail." 

"  But,  sir,  consider — " 

"  Don't  talk  to  me,  woman !  If  you  have  the  money  for 
the  rent,  I  will  take  it,  and  let  your  husband  go  free  ;  if  not, 
the  quicker  you  leave  here  the  better." 

It  was  vain,  she  saw  to  strive  with  the  hard-hearted  man, 
whose  face  was  like  iron.  Hurriedly  leaving  his  house,  she 
hastened  back  to  the  office,  but  her  husband  was  not  there. 
In  her  absence  he  had  been  removed  to  prison.  When  Mrs. 
Lyon  fully  understood  this,  she  made  no  remark,  but  turned 
from  the  magistrate  and  walked  home  with  a  firm  step. 
The  weakness  of  the  woman  was  giving  way  to  the  quicken- 
ing energies  of  the  wife,  whose  husband  was  in  prison,  and 
could  not  be  released  except  by  her  efforts.  On  entering 
her  house,  she  went  to  her  drawers,  and  took  therefrom  a 
silk  dress,  but  little  worn,  a  mother's  present  when  she  was 
married ;  a  good  shawl,  that  she  had  bought  from  her  own 
earnings  when  a  happy  maiden ;  a  few  articles  of  jewelry, 
that  had  not  been  worn  for  years,  most  of  them  presents 
from  Ralph  before  they  had  stood  at  the  bridal  altar,  and 
sundry  other  things,  that  could  best  be  dispensed  with. 
These  she  took  to  a  pawnbroker's,  and  obtained  an  advance 
of  fifteen  dollars.  She  had  two  dollars  in  the  house,  which 
made  seventeen ;  the  balance  of  the  required  sum  she  bor- 
rowed from  two  or  three  of  her  neighbors,  and  then  hurried 
off  to  obtain  her  husband's  release. 


188         SALLY  LYON'S  VISIT  TO  THE  ALE-HOUSE. 


fact  that  she  loved  Ralph  tenderly,  notwithstanding  his 
errors.  When  he  came  home  in  liquor,  she  did  not  chide 
him,  nor  did  she  say  any  thing  to  him  ahout  it  when  he  was 
sober;  for  then  he  appeared  so  ashamed  and  cut  down, 
that  she  could  not  find  it  in  her  heart  to  utter  a  single 
word. 

One  day  she  was  alarmed  by  a  message  from  Ralph  that 
he  had  been  arrested,  while  at  his  work,  for.  debt,  by  his 
landlord,  who  was  going  to  throw  him  in  jail.  They  now 
owed  him  over  twenty  dollars.  The  idea  of  her  husband 
being  thrown  into  a  jail  was  terrible  to  poor  Mrs.  Lyon. 
She  asked  a  kind  neighbor  to  take  care  of  her  children  for 
her,  and  then  putting  on  her  bonnet,  she  almost  flew  to  the 
magistrate's  office.  There  was  Ralph,  with  an  officer  by  his 
side  ready  to  remove  him  to  prison. 

"  You  shan't  take  my  husband  to  jail,"  she  said,  wildly, 
when  she  saw  the  real  aspect  of  things,  clinging  fast  hold  of 
Ralph.  "  Nobody  shall  take  him  to  jail." 

"  I  am  sorry,  my  good  woman,"  said  the  magistrate,  "  to 
do  so,  but  it  can't  be  helped.  The  debt  must  be  paid,  or 
your  husband  will  have  to  go  to  jail.  I  have  no,  discretion 
in  the  matter.  Can  you  find  means  to  pay  the  debt  1  If 
not,  perhaps  you  had  better  go  and  see  your  landlord  ;  you 
may  prevail  on  him  to  wait  a  little  longer  for  his  money,  and 
not  send  your  husband  to  jail." 

"  Yes,  Sally,  do  go  and  see  him,"  said  Ralph ;  "  I  am 
sure  he  will  relent  when  he  sees  you." 

Mrs.  Lyon  let  go  the  arm  of  her  husband,  and,  darting 
from  the  office,  ran  at  full  speed  to  the  house  of  their  land- 
lord. « 


SALLY    LYON'S    VISIT   TC    THE    ALE-HOUSE.  189 

"  Oh5  sir ! "  she  exclaimed,  "  you  cannot,  you  will  not 
send  my  husband  to  jail." 

"  I  both  can  and  will,"  was  the  gruff  reply.  "  A  man 
who  drinks  up  his  earnings  as  he  does,  and  then,  when  quar- 
ter-day comes,  can't  pay  his  rent,  deserves  to  go  to  jail." 

"  But,  sir,  consider — " 

"  Don't  talk  to  me,  woman !  If  you  have  the  money  for 
the  rent,  I  will  take  it,  and  let  your  husband  go  free  ;  if  not, 
the  quicker  you  leave  here  the  better." 

It  was  vain,  she  saw  to  strive  with  the  hard-hearted  man, 
whose  face  was  like  iron.  Hurriedly  leaving  his  house,  she 
hastened  back  to  the  office,  but  her  husband  was  not  there. 
In  her  absence  he  had  been  removed  to  prison.  When  Mrs. 
Lyon  fully  understood  this,  she  made  no  remark,  but  turned 
from  the  magistrate  and  walked  home  with  a  firm  step. 
The  weakness  of  the  woman  was  giving  way  to  the  quicken- 
ing energies  of  the  wife,  whose  husband  was  in  prison,  and 
could  not  be  released  except  by  her  efforts.  On  entering 
her  house,  she  went  to  her  drawers,  and  took  therefrom  a 
silk  dress,  but  little  worn,  a  mother's  present  when  she  was 
married ;  a  good  shawl,  that  she  had  bought  from  her  own 
earnings  when  a  happy  maiden ;  a  few  articles  of  jewelry, 
that  had  not  been  worn  for  years,  most  of  them  presents 
from  Ralph  before  they  had  stood  at  the  bridal  altar,  and 
sundry  other  things,  that  could  best  be  dispensed  with. 
These  she  took  to  a  pawnbroker's,  and  obtained  an  advance 
of  fifteen  dollars.  She  had  two  dollars  in  the  house,  which 
made  seventeen ;  the  balance  of  the  required  sum  she  bor- 
rowed from  two  or  three  of  her  neighbors,  and  then  hurried 
off  to  obtain  her  husband's  release. 


190 


For  a  time,  the  rigid  proceedings  of  the  landlord  proved 
a  useful  lesson  to  Ralph  Lyon.  He  worked  more  steadily, 
and  was  rather  more  careful  of  his  earnings.  But  this  did 
not  last  a  great  while.  Appetite,  long  indulged,  was  strong ; 
and  he  soon  returned  to  his  old  habits. 

The  shock  the  imprisonment  of  her  husband  produced, 
awoke  Mrs.  Lyon  to  the  necessity  of  doing  something  to  in- 
crease their  income.  All  that  he  brought  home  each  week 
was  scarcely  sufficient  to  buy  food  ;  and  it  was  clear  that 
there  would  be  nothing  with  which  to  pay  rent  when  next 
quarter-day  came  round,  unless  it  should  be  the  product  of 
her  own  exertions.  Plain  sewing  was  obtained  by  Mrs. 
Lyon,  and  an  additional  labor  of  three  or  four  hours  in  the 
twenty -four  added  to  her  already  over-tasked  body.  Instead 
of  feeling  rebuked  at  this,  the  besotted  husband  only  per- 
ceived in  it  a  license  for  him  to  use  his  own  earnings  more 
freely,  thus  making  his  poor  wife's  condition  really  worse 
than  it  was  before. 

Things,  instead  of  getting  better,  grew  worse,  year  after 
year.  The  rent  Mrs.  Lyon  managed  always  to  pay ;  for 
the  fear  of  seeing  her  husband  carried  off  to  jail  was  ever 
before  her  eyes,  stimulating  her  to  constant  exertion  ;  but 
down,  down,  down  they  went  steadily  and  surely,  and  the 
light  of  hope  faded  daily,  and  grew  dimmer  and  dimmer  be- 
fore the  eyes  of  the  much  enduring  wife  and  mother.  Amid 
all,  her  patience  was  wonderful.  She  never  spoke  angrily  to 
Ralph,  but  strove,  rather,  always  to  appear  cheerful  before 
him.  If  he  was  disposed  to  talk,  she  would  talk  with  him, 
and  humor  his  mood  of  mind  ;  if  he  was  gloomy  and  silent, 
she  would  intrude  nothing  upon  him  calculated  to  fret  h's 


SALLY    LYON  S    VISIT    TO    THE    ALE-HOUSE.  191 


temper ;  if  he  complained,  she  tried  to  sooth  him.  But  it 
availed  nothing.  The  man  was  in  a  charmed  circle,  and 
every  impulse  tended  to  throw  him  into  the  centre  where 
ruin  awaited  him. 

At  last  even  the  few  dollars  she  had  received  every  week 
from  her  husband's  earnings,  ceased  to  come  into  her  hands. 
The  wretched  man  worked  little  over  half  his  time,  and 
drank  up  all  that  he  made.  Even  the  amount  of  food  that 
the  entire  product  of  Mrs.  Lyon's  labor  would  procure, 
was  barely  sufficient  to  satisfy  the  hunger  of  her  family. 
The  clothes  of  her  children  soon  began  to  hang  in  tatters 
about  them  ;  her  own  garments  were  faded,  worn  and 
patched  ;  and  every  thing  about  the  house  that  had  not  been 
sold  to  pay  rent,  was  in  a  dilapidated  condition.  Still,  there 
had  been  no  unkind  word,  not  even  a  remonstrance  from  the 
much-enduring  wife. 

Matters  at  last  reached  a  climax.  Poor  Mrs.  Lyon  had 
not  been  able  to  get  any  thing  to  do  for  a  week,  and  all  sup- 
plies of  food,  except  a  little  meal,  were  exhausted.  An  anx 
ious  day  had  closed,  and  at  night-fall  the  mother  made  some 
hasty -pudding  for  the  children,  which  was  eaten  with  a  little 
milk.  This  consumed  her  entire  store.  She  had  four  chil- 
dren, the  two  oldest  she  put  to  bed,  but  kept  the  two  young- 
est, one  five  years  old,  and  the  other  three,  up  with  her. 
She  moved  about  with  a  firmer  step  than  usual,  and  her  lips 
were  tightly  closed,  as  if  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  do 
something  from  which,  under  ordinary  circumstances,  she 
would  have  shrunk. 

After  the  older  children  had  been  put  to  bed,  she  made 
the  two  younger  ones  draw  near  to  the  hearth,  upon  which  a 


192 


few  brands  were  burning,  and  warm  themselves  as  well  as 
the  feeble  heat  emitted  by  the  almost  exhausted  fire  would 
permit.  Then  she  wrapped  each  around  with  a  piece  of  an 
old  shawl,  and  after  putting  on  her  bonnet,  took  them  by  the 
hands  and  left  the  house.  It  was  a  chilly  night  in  winter. 
The  wind  swept  coldly  along  the  streets,  piercing  through 
the  thin  garments  of  the  desperate  mother,  who  was  leading 
forth  her  tender  little  ones  on  some  strange,  unnatural 
errand.  But  she  shrunk  not  in  the  blast,  but  walked  rapidly 
along,  almost  dragging  the  children  after  her.  At  length 
she  stopped  before  the  window  of  an  ale-house,  a-nd  standing 
on  tip-toe,  looked  over  the  red  curtain  that  shaded  half  the 
window,  and  concealed  the  inmates  from  the  view  of  passers 
by.  Within  she  saw  her  husband  sitting  comfortably  by  a 
table,  a  glass  by  his  side,  and  a  pipe  in  his  mouth.  Half  a 
dozen  pot-companions  were  sitting  around,  and  all  seemed 
enjoying  themselves  well. 

Mrs.  Lyon  remained  without  only  a  few  moments ;  then 
taking  hold  of  the  door  she  walked  firmly  in,  and  without 
appearing  to  notice  her  husband,  went  up  to  the  bar  and 
called  for  three  glasses  of  brandy.  After  doing  this,  she 
seated  herself  at  a  table  near  by  her  husband.  Great,  of 
course,  was  the  surprise  of  Lyon  at  this  apparition.  He 
jumped  from  his  chair  and  stood  before  his  wife,  just  as  she 
had  taken  her  seat  at  the  table,  saying,  in  an  under  tone,  as 
he  did  so — 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Sally  !  what  brings  you  here  ?  " 
"  It  is  very  lonesome  at  home,  Ralph,"  she  replied,  in  a 
calm  but  sad  voice.     "  Our  wood  is  all  gone,  and  it  is  cold 
there.     I  am  your  wife,  and  there  is  no  company  for  me  like 


SALLY    LYON's    VISIT    TO    THE    ALE-HOUSE.  193 

yours.  I  will  go  anywhere  to  be  with  you.  I  am  willing  to 
come  even  here.35 

"  But,  Sally,  to  think  of  your  coming  to  such  a  place  as 
this." 

"If  it  is  pleasant  to  you,  it  shall  be  so  to  me.  Any 
where  that  my  husband  goes,  surely  I  can  go.  God  hath 
joined  us  together  as  one,  and  nothing  should  divide  us." 

By  this  time  the  three  glasses  of  brandy  that  Mrs.  Lyon 
had  called  for  were  placed  before  her  on  the  table. 

"  Bring  another  glass,"  said  Mrs.  Lyon  calmly,  "  my 
husband  will  drink  with  us." 

"  Sally,  are  you  mad?"  ejaculated  Ralph. 

u  Mad,  to  go  with  my  husband?  Why  should  you  say 
that,  Ralph  ?  Drink,  children,"  she  added,  turning  to  her 
two  little  ones,  and  placing  a  glass  of  unadulterated  brandy 
before  them.  "  It  will  do  you  good."  As  Sally  said  this, 
she  lifted  her  own  glass  to  her  lips. 

"  Surely,  you  are  not  going  to  drink  that  ?"  said  Ralph. 

"  Why  not  ?  You  drink  to  forget  sorrow ;  and  if  brandy 
have  that  effect,  I  am  sure  no  living  creature  needs  it  more 
than  I  do.  Besides,  I  have  eaten  nothing  to-day,  and  need 
something  to  strengthen  me." 

Saying  this,  she  sipped  the  burning  liquid,  and  smacking 
her  lips,  looked  up  into  her  husband's  face  and  smiled. 

"It  warms  to  the v  very  heart,  Ralph!"  she  said.  "I 
feel  better  already."  Then  turning  to  the  children,  whose 
glasses  remained  untouched  before  them,  she  said  to  the 
astonished  little  ones, 

"  Drink,  my  children  !     It  is  very  good." 

"  Woman  !  are  you  mad  ?     My  children  shall  not  touch 


194  SALLY    LYON?S    VISIT    TO    THE    ALE  HOUSE. 

it;"  and  he  lifted  the  glasses  from  the  table  and  Landed 
them  to  one  of  the  company  that  had  crowded  around  to  wit- 
ness this  strange  scene. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  his  wife,  in  the  calm  tone  wit  A  which 
she  had  at  first  spoken.  "  If  it  is  good  for  you.,  h  is  good 
for  your  wife  and  children.  It  will  put  these  dear  ones  to 
sleep,  and  they  will  forget  that  they  are  cold  and  hungry. 
To  you  it  is  fire  and  food  and  bed  and  clothing — all  these  we 
need,  and  you  will  surely  not  withhold  them  from  us." 

"  By  this  time  Ralph  was  less  under  the  influence  of  liquor 
than  he  had  been  for  weeks,  although  he  had  drank  as  freely 
as  ever  through  the  day.  Taking  hold  of  his  wife's  arm,  he 
said,  in  a  kind  voice,  for  he  began  to  think  that  her  mmd 
was  really  wandering — 

"  Come,  Sally,  let  us  go  home." 

"  Why  should  we  go,  Ralph  1 "  she  replied,  keeping  her 
seat.  "  There  is  no  fire  at  home,  but  it  is  warm  and  com- 
fortable here.  There  is  no  food  there,  but  here  is  plenty,  to 
eat  and  to  drink.  I  don't  wonder  that  you  liked  this  plaee 
better  than  home,  and  I  am  sure  I  would  rather  stay  here." 

The  drunken  husband  was  confounded.  He  .knew  not 
what  to  do  or  to  say.  TliL  words  of  his  wife  smote  him  to 
the  heart ;  for  she  uttered  a  stunning  rebuke  that  could  not 
be  gainsaid.  He  felt  a  choking  sensation,  and  his  trembling 
knees  bore  heavily  against  each  other. 

"  Sally,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  in  an  altered  and  very 
earnest  tone,  "  I  know  it  is  more  comfortable  here  than  it  is 
at  home,  but  I  am  going  home,  and  I  intend  staying  there. 
Won't  you  go  with  me,  and  try  to  make  it  as  comfortable  as 
it  used  to  be?  The  change  is  all  my  fault,  I  know  ;  but  it 


195 


shall  be  my  fault  no  longer.  Here,  once  iOid  forever,  I 
solemnly  pledge  myself  before  God  never  again  to  drink  the 
poison  that  has  made  me  more  t.ian  half  a  brute,  and  beg- 
gared my  poor  family.  Come,  Sally  !  Let  us  hurry  away 
from  here  ;  the  very  air  oppresses  me.  Come,  in  Heaven's 
name  !  come  ! " 

Quickly,  as  if  an  electric  shock  had  startled  her,  did  Mrs. 
Lyon  spring  from  her  seat,  as  her  husband  uttered  the  last 
word,  and  lay  hold  of  his  arm  with  an  eager  grasp. 

"  The  Lord  in  Heaven  be  praised!"  she  said,  solemnly, 
"  for  it  is  his  work.  Yes,  come !  Let  us  go  quickly. 
There  will  again  be  light,  and  fire  and  food  in  our  dwelling. 
Our  last  days  may  yet  be  our  best  days." 

Lifting  each  a  child  from  the  floor,  the  husband  and  wife 
left  that  den  of  misery  with  as  hasty  steps  as  Christian's 
when  he  fled  from  the  City  of  Destruction. 

The  hopeful  declaration  of  Mrs.  Lyon  proved  indeed  true. 
There  was  soon  light,  and  fire,  and  food  again  in  that  cheer- 
less dwelling ;  and  the  last  days  of  Ralph  and  his  family 
have  proved  to  be  their  best  days.  He  has  never  since 
tasted  the  tempting  cup,  jand  finds  that  it  is  a  very  easy 
matter  to  save  one  or  two  dollars  a  week,  and  yet  live  very 
comfortably. 

The  scene  in  the  ale-house  is  never  alluded  to  by  either 
the  husband  or  wife.  They  take  no  pleasure  in  looking 
back — preferring,  rather,  to  look  forward  with  hope.  When 
it  is  thought  of  by  either,  it  is  something  as  a  man  who  has 
endured  a  painful  operation  to  save  his  life,  thinks  of  the 
intense  sufferings  he  then  endured. 


196  HERUDIAS. 


DAYLIGHT  had  almost  faded  from  the  fast  darkening 
clouds,  which  lay,  heaving  their  fantastic  bosoms,  along  the 
western  verge  of  the  horizon.  The  hills  of  Bashan  no  longer 
stretched  their  clear  line  of  blue  across  the  sky,  but  mingled 
their  dim  summits  with  the  nebulous  vapors  floating  in  the 
humid  atmosphere.  The  noise  of  business  and  mirth  was 
fast  dying  from  the  streets  of  Sepphoris,  and  the  shepherds 
had  driven  their  flocks  for  shelter  to  the  neighboring  valleys. 
Many  a  fireside  was  lightened  by  the  smile  of  gladness  ;  and 
many  a  little  innocent  was  clasped  to  the  bosom  of  its  father, 
returned  from  the  toil  of  the  day,  while  the  mother's  eyes 
glistened  with  tears  of  affections  as  she  resigned  the  dear 
pledge  of  connubial  joy  to  the  paternal  embraces. 

But  there  was  one  heart  that  thrilled  not  to  the  sweet 
associations  of  domestic  bliss — one  eye  that  melted  not  while 
gazing  upon  the  pledges  of  mutual  love. 

In  a  splendid  chamber,  hung  with  all  the  costly  magnifi- 
cence of  the  East,  sat  a  female  of  the  most  striking  beauty. 
She  wore  a  tunic,  or  inner  garment,  made  of  the  finest  linen, 
fringed  with  golden  flowers  and  needlework  of  various  colors ; 
this  was  confined  to  the  waist  by  a  girdle,  embroidered  with 
gold  and  silver,  and  precious  stones  of  every  hue,  and 
clasped  by  a  diamond  which  a  monarch  would  have  been 
proud  to  have  worn ;  over  these  was  loosely  thrown  a  gor- 
geous mantle  of  purple  velvet,  which,  falling  in  luxuriant 
folds  trailed  on  a  carpet  of  the  same  splendid  manufacture. 


• 

HERODIAS.  197 


Azure  sandals  of  curious  workmanship  bound  her  feet,  and 
her  head  was  encircled  with  a  diadem  or  fillet  of  gold.  She 
had  been  seated  with  her  heni  leaning  on  her  hand  since  the 
eleventh  hour,  absorbed  in  deep,  and  seemingly  unpleasant 
reflection,  for  there  was  a  stern  expression  on  her  beautiful 
brow,  and  a  tear  could  indistinctly  be  seen  gathering  in  her 
dark  and  piercing  eye.  This  was  Herodias,  the  wife  of 
Herod  Antipas. 

News  had  been  received  an  hour  before  that  Herod 
Agrippa,  her  brother,  was  appointed  governor  of  Judea, 
Samaria,  and  Idumea  with  the  title  of  King,  by  Caligula, 
the  Roman  Emperor ;  and  this  wicked,  but  extraordinary 
woman,  was  resolving  to  compass  sea  and  land,  but  that  her 
husband  should  also  have  the  title  of  King,  instead  of 
Tetrach,  in  his  province  of  Galilee.  Her  pride  and  jealousy 
were  aroused  to  their  wildest  pitch,  by  the  thought  that  the 
brother  whom  she  had  saved  from  imprisonment  and  almost 
starvation,  should  thus  be  exalted  above  her. 

While  seated  as  we  have  described  her,  Herod  entered  her 
apartment  and  placing  himself  by  her  side,  took  her  hand, 
glittering  with  jewels,  and  said, 

"  How  now,  Herodias  ? — melancholy  ? — You  are  not  wont 
to  be  in  this  mood  ! " 

"  I  am  not,"  said  she — "  but  to  think  that  beggarly 
spendthrift  Agrippa,  to  whom  we  extended  the  hand  of  cha- 
rity such  a  brief  space  since,  should  now  be  clad  in  splendor 
far  surpassing  ours,  is  more  than  I  can  bear  without  anger." 

"  Be  not  disturbed,"  returned  the  wily  Herod,  (called  by 
our  blessed  Lord  "that  fox,")  "fortune has  favored  him  and 
we  will  only  hav;  to  wait  another  turn  of  the  wheel,  when  we 


198  HERODIAS. 


may  perchance  attain  a  higher  elevation  than  we  now  hold,  or 
he  be  dashed  in  pieces  by  a  fall  from  his  proud  pre-eminence.3' 

"  Fortune  ! "  said  Herodias,  with  a  curl  of  the  lip,  "  I  be- 
lieve in  i  o  fortune  but  our  own  exertions ;  and  I  cannot  see 
why  you  might  not  obtain  the  title,  and  the  privileges  too, 
of  a  King,  as  well  as  that  insinuating  brother  of  mine." 

"  Caligula  is  not  so  ready  to  emit  sparks  from  his  own 
glory,"  replied  Herod ;  "  he  would  have  been  very  far  from 
bestowing  such  peculiar  honors  on  Agrippa,  had  he  not  been 
a  friend  of  his  youth,  and  incurred  censure  and  imprisonment 
from  Tiberius  on  his  account,  from  which  Caligula  released 
him  on  the  death  of  the  Emperor.  What  mad  scheme  of 
ambition  has  taken  possession  of  your  thoughts  ?  Let  us 
wait  for  some  change,  some  offered  step  to  a  higher  destiny, 
before  we  trifle  with  our  present  elevation." 

"  To  wait  for  a  more  favorable  change  is  folly.  Go  to 
Rome — Caligula  has  just  entered  upon  the  duties  of  Empe- 
ror— He  is  yet  at  peace  with  himself  and.  those  around  him 
— He  is  attached  to  Agrippa,  and  the  husband  of  his  sister 
has  every  thing  to  hope.  Gain  but  the  title  of  King,  and 
Agrippa  shall  not  wear  his  honors  without  a  rival." 

The  better  genius  of  Herod  Antipas  forsook  him,  and  he 
followed  the  promptings  of  his  ambitious  and  envious  wife. 
The  next  day  found  him  on  his  way  to  Csesarea,  to  embark 
for  Rome. 

Herod  Agrippa  was  not  long  in  receiving  information,  of 
the  movement  of  his  relation  in  Galilee.  He  had  antici- 
pated the  jealousy  of  his  sister,  but  believed  Antipas  was  too 
much  on  his  guard  to  be  entrapped  to  his  own  ruin.  When 
it  was  told  him  that  the  Tetrarch  of  Galilee  was  on  his  way 


HERODIAS.  199 


to  Rome  to  solicit  the  title  of  King,  a  dark  cloud  fell  upon 
his  brow  for  a  moment — it  was  quickly  succeeded  by  a  smile 
of  contempt  and  triumph.  He  called  a  trusty  messenger 
and  after  communicating  with  him  for  some  time  in  a  hur- 
ried manner,  retired  to  his  own  chamber.  Half  an  hour 
afterwards  a  person  left  Jerusalem,  bound,  speedily,  for  the 
capital  of  the  Caesars. 

Some  weeks  after  our  story  commenced,  a  messenger  from 
Agrippa  wras  admitted  to  the  ear  of  Caligula ;  and  it  was 
observed  by  those  about  him  that,  after  dismissing  him,  his 
countenance  wore  an  expression  of  a  sterner  aspect. 

On  the  next  day,  Herod  arrived  in  Rome,  and  after  going 
through  the  usual  ceremonies  required  by  the  custom  of  the 
times,  obtained  a  private  audience  with  the  Emperor.  After 
a  very  cold  greeting,  Caligula  haughtily  demanded  why  he 
had  left  the  cares  of  government  to  repair  to  Rome  without 
giving  him  an  intimation1  of  the  cause  of  his  visit. 

Herod  perceived  at  once  that  the  Emperor  had  imbibed  a 
prejudice  against  him.  But  he  proceeded,  in  the  most  cau- 
tious manner,  to  lay  before  him  the  cause  of  his  journey. 
Caligula  heard  him  patiently  to  the  end,  and  then  answered 
sneeringly  : 

"  We  in  our  supreme  wisdom  thought  fit  to  make  Judea  a 
Kingdom,  and  in  our  supreme  wisdom  thought  fit  to  let  Gal- 
ilee remain  a  Tetrarchy — have  you  any  thing  to  urge 
against  our  imperial  will  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  the  confused  Herod. 

"  I  have  heard  strange  things  regarding  your  loyalty,  my 
would-be  King,"  said  the  emperor,  a  dark  frown  lowering 
upon  his  brow. 


200  HERODIAS. 


fcfc  Did  you  never  intrigue  with  Sejanus  ?  Have  you  not 
secret  intelligence  with  the  Parthians  ? — Are  there  not  large 
stores  of  arms  in  your  armories  to  be  ready  in  case  of  a 
revolt  ? — Answer  me  ! "  thundered  forth  the  furious  Caligula. 

For  a  moment  the  pride  of  Herod  rose  above  his  discre- 
tion, but,  his  cunning  coming  to  his  aid,  he  repelled  the  too 
true  charges  as  well  as  his  confusion  would  permit  him,  but 
so  illy,  that  the  Emperor  was  convinced  that  his  disaffection 
was  too  true. 

We  will  now  return  with  the  reader  to  Sepphoris,  the 
Capital  of  Galilee ;  where,  in  the  same  magnificent  apart- 
ment that  we  before  described,  we  will  find  Herodias  seated 
in  the  same  motionless  posture  of  intense  anxiety. 

Many  weeks  had  elapsed  since  her  husband's  departure 
for  Rome,  on  his  errand  of  ambition,  and  as  yet  no  messen- 
ger had  arrived  to  tell  of  his  success.  A  thousand  uneasy 
thoughts  chased  each  other  through  her  mind,  and  gloomy 
forebodings  fell  like  mildew  upon  her  heart.  She  half  re- 
pented of  her  cruelty  to  the  good  John  the  Baptist,  who  had 
lifted  his  voice  against  Herod  for  marrying  his  brother's 
wife — now  her  mind  wandered  to  the  repudiated  wife  of  her 
husband,  and  now  returned  to  the  hour  when  she  had  called 
Philip  her  own  with  all  the  joy  of  her  young  heart's  affec- 
tions ;  and  she  bowed  her  head  like  a  guilty  thing  who 
desires  to  flee  the  stings  of  an  awakened  conscience.  But 
these  thoughts  all  vanished  before  that  of  being  called  Qaeen 
of  Galilee. 

The  sound  of  a  warlike  trumpet  caught  her  ear,  echoed 
from  the  distant  mountains,  and  her  heart  leaped  within  her 
— she  listened  and  the  Vast  swelled  again  melodiously  o» 


HERODIAS.  201 


the  still  air  of  evening,  and,  on  lifting  her  eyes  she  beheld 
the  Imperial  Eagle  waving  on  the  Royal  Standard. 

A  body  of  Roman  Soldiers  escorted  Herod  into  the  city  ; 
but  Herodias  could  not  determine  whether  they  were  for  a 
guard,  or  to  do  honor  to  her  husband. 

"  Shall  I  hail  you  as  King  of  Galilee, "  said  Herodias  in 
an  anxious  and  hurried  tone  as  he  entered  her  chamber. 

"  That  will  inform  you  of  my  title,"  said  he,  dashing  a 
packet  on  the  table  before  her ;  "  your  folly  has  been  my 
ruin!'5 

Hastily  breaking  the  seal  which  was  impressed  with  the 
King's  signet,  she  found,  to  her  horror,  that  it  set  forth,  that 
as  Herod  Antipas  had  been  found  guilty  of  secretly  plotting 
against  the  government  of  his  Imperial  master,  he  was  sen- 
tenced to  depart  into  exile,  never  to  return  to  his  native 
country.  It  stipulated  that,  as  Herodias  was  the  sister  of 
Agrippa,  she  might  remain,  and  would  be  reinstated  into  all 
her  former  privileges  and  honors. 

She  dashed  the  letter  from  her,  and  giving  way  to  her 
woman  weakness,  said,  while  the  tears  fell  down  upon  her 
neck  and  bosom. — 

"  Herod's  banishment  shall  be  lightened  by  the  kindness 
of  Herodias.  If  Gaul  is  your  place  of  exile,  Gaul  shall  be 
my  home.  I  would  have  shared  in  your  highest  honors,  and 
I  will  partake  of  your  lowest  degradation." 

Herod  Antipas,  accompanied  by  Herodias,  departed  to 
waste  his  inglorious  life  in  the  same  distant  province  in 
which  his  brother  Archelaus  had  been  banished  some  years 
previous  by  the  Emperor  Augustus,  arid  the  Tetrarchy  of 
of  Gal' lee  was  united  to  the  Kingdom  of  Judea. 


202  THE    WATCHER. 


S 


BY     MRS.     EMELINE     S.      SMITH 

SHE  sits  alone  within  the  home  where  gladness 
Once  made  the  light  of  every  passing  day  ; 

Now  o'er  that  home  the  heavy  cloud  of  sadness 
Falls  darker  as  each  moment  glides  away. 

X 

She  sits  alone — her  infant  calmly  sleepeth, 
And  dreams  sweet  dreams  within  its  cradle-bed, 

And  smiles,  unconscious  that  its  mother  weepeth 
The  bitterest  tears  that  mortal  eyes  can  shed. 

The  drops  that  fall  when  our  beloved  ones  perish 
Are  but  the  summer-showers  of  the  heart, 

For  calm,  pure  thoughts,  and  Hopes  we  fondly  cherish 
May  still  bloom  on  when  these  light  storms  depart. 

But  when  we  weep  for  one  beloved,  who  strayeth 
Far  from  the  path  of  good,  to  sin  and  wo, 

Our  grief  is  like  the  winter  storm  that  layeth 
All  blooming  flowers,  all  buds  of  promise  low. 

Such  tears  as  these — such  wintry  drops  of  sorrow, 
Have  dimed  the  Watcher's  eyes  for  many  a  night ; 

And  still  she  weeps — but  weeping  strives  to  borrow 
Some  hope  to  cheer  her  till  the  morning  light. 


THE    WATCHER.  203 


*'  This  cannot  last ; — his  heart,  once  proudly  leaping 

To  every  lofty  thought  and  noble  aim, 
Will  break  the  fatal  spells  that  now  are  keeping 

The  light  of  honor  from  his  once-fair  name. 

"  This  cannot  last ! — our  child's  sweet  smiles  will  lure  him 
Back  to  his  home  j  and  there  affection's  power 

Shall  weave  new  wiles  and  witcheries  to  secure  him, 
A  willing  captive,  to  a  blissful  bower. 

•'  Ah  !  yes,  I  feel  the  shadows  now  before  us 
Will  vanish  soon,  like  mist  from  morning  sun ; 

And  the  sweet  Heaven  of  Love  that  bendeth  o'er  us 
Be  fair  as  when  our  wedded  life  begun." 

Such  thoughts  the  Watcher  to  her  spirit  foldeth, 
To  light  the  gloomy  hours  that  slowly  pass, 

While  still  afar  her  erring  husband  holdeth 
His  midnight  revels  o'er  the  tempting  glass. 

Alas,  she  knows  not,  in  her  guileless  dreaming, 
Half  the  wild  witchery  of  the  maddening  bowl  j 

Nor  thinks  how  soon  its  flame  may  quench  the  beaming1 
Of  virtue's  purer  radiance  in  the  soul. 

The  night  wears  on,  and  happy  hearts  are  sleeping ; 

But  sorrow's  children  wake  and  suffer  still, 
While  the  pure  stars  their  patient  watch  are  keeping 

Alike  o'er  joy  and  grief,  o'er  good  and  ill. 

The  night  wears  on — the  lamps  of  Heaven  are  paling 
Before  the  radiance  of  the  coming  morn — 

The  weary  Watcher's  heart  and  hope  are  failing, 
As  darker  fears  with:!  her  soul  are  born. 


204  THE    WATCHER. 


Well  may  she  fear  !  for  as  the  day  advances, 
And  gilds  her  casement  with  a  feeble  ray, 

A  sight  of  horror  meets  her  tearful  glances, 
A  sight  that  drives  all  lingering  hope  away. 

He  comes  at  last — but,  oh  !  so  much  degraded 
By  the  wild  orgies  of  the  vanished  night, 

That  every  lofty  lineament  hath  faded, 

And  reason's  ray  withholds  its  heavenly  light 

The  fatal  wine  cup,  rousing  him  to  madness, 
Hath  lured  him  on  to  do  a  deed  of  shame, — 

And  now,  farewell  to  every  hope  of  gladness, 
For  lasting  darkness  settles  on  his  name. 

No  love,  no  tears,  no  prayers  can  now  defend  him 
From  the  sad  evils  that  must  surely  come  ; 

Remorse  and  deep  regret  shall  now  attend  him, 
And  the  dark  prison-cell  will  be  his  home. 

Then  weep,  fond  wife,  thy  lease  of  joy  is  ended — 
Weep  for  thyself,  thy  child,  but  most  for  him 

Whose  every  thought  in  life  will  now  be  blended 
With  memories  that  shall  make  the  day-star  dim. 

Yes,  weep,  but  also  pray — thou'rt  not  forsaken, 
Though  darkness  rests  upon  thy  home  and  heart } 

There  is  a  Friend  on  High  who  yet  shall  waken 
The  light  that  bids  all  earthly  gloom  depart. 


[P  D  [I 


A    REMINISCENCE.  205 


A    13  XI  V  lit  IV  CB. 

BY     H.ENRY     G.     LEE. 

PEOPLE  are  generally  disposed  to  consider  the  poor,  and 
especially  poor  young  females,  as  necessarily  vulgar  minded. 
Although  too  often  this  is  true,  yet  there  are  many,  very 
many  exceptions.  I  can  now  recall,  more  than  one,  yes, 
more  than  a  score,  whom  I  once  knew,  who  were  as  pure  in 
heart,  and  who  had  something  as  spiritual  and  elevating 
about  their  thoughts,  as  even  the  heroine  of  a  modern 
romance — and  these  very  girls  were  used  to  work — even 
LABOR,  with  their  hands,  from  the  rising  of  the  sun  until  the 
going  down  thereof,  and  often  until  midnight,  for  those  who 
looked  upon  them  and  despised  them  as  menials. 

Let  me  present  to  you,  kind  reader,  Ellen  Filmore.  She 
is  not  beautiful,  as  the  world  would  call  beautiful ;  and  yet, 
that  fair  face — as  I  now  recall  it — those  modest,  downcast, 
yet  earnest  eyes — that  symmetrical  frame,  are  to  me  very 
beautiful  indeed — for  I  see  in  every  glance,  in  every  emotion, 
the  moving  impulse  of  a  pure  heart. 

I  first  knew  Ellen  Filmore  when  she  was  only  a  domestic, 
toiling  from  morning  until  night  in  the  meanest  drudgery  for 
one  who  had  taken  her  at  the  request  of  a  dying  mother,  to 
whom  she  had  promised  that  Ellen  should  be  as  her  own 
child.  Poorly  clad,  ?nd  working  like  a  slave,  this  patient 


206  A    REMINISCENCE. 


girl  never  complained,  and  was  faithful  in  all  her  ways.  Her 
father  and  mother  had  moved  in  c  good  society/  but  the 
former  died  insolvent,  and  the  latter  soon  followed  him. 
Ellen  was  then  but  ten  years  old.  She  remembered  all  her 
former  blessings — the  tenderness  of  her  mother,  and  the 
fondness  of  her  father;  and  sometimes  the  contrast  would 
sadden  her  even  to  tears.  Then  she  would  steal  a^fay  to  her 
poor  chamber  in  the  garret,  and  kneeling  beside  her  bed, 
earnestly  ask  of  him  who  is  a  Father  to  the  fatherless,  to  give 
her  patience  and  resignation  in  her  cheerless  pilgrimage. 

Mrs.  L ,  to  whom  she  was  bound  by  the  Orphan's 

Court,  was  a  cruel  woman,  and  very  passionate.  She  kept 
boarders,  and  had  no  other  servant  but  Ellen,  after  the 
delicate  girl  passed  her  fourteenth  year.  Many  a  time  have 
I  seen  her  go  past  our  window',  toiling  beneath  a  market 
basket  that  would  have  wearied  a  strong  man.  But  she  was 
never  known  to  complain.  No  one  could  say  that  a  shade  of 
anger  was  ever  seen  to  cross  her  brow,  or  that  an  evil  word 

was  ever  heard  to  fall  from  her  lips.    Mrs.  L 5s  boarding 

house  was  next  door  but  one  to  Mr.  Williams',  where  I  was 
apprenticed,  and  as  the  lady  was  an  inveterate  borrower  of 
tubs  on  washing  days,  and  all  manner  of  kitchen  utensils, 
besides  drawings  of  tea,  "  makings"  of  coffee,  and  plates  of 
butter,  I  often  met  Ellen  who  performed  these  errands.  I, 
of  course,  sympathizing  with  those  on  a  level  in  society  with 
myself,  could  not  but  notice  and  admire  the  apparent 
amiability  of  her  disposition.  Sweet  Mary  Williams  was 
very  kind  to  Ellen  Filmore,  and  often  gave  her  an  encou- 
raging word,  and  always  a  pleasant  smile.  She  would  fre- 
quently speak  of  her,  and  regret  the  hardship  of  her  lot. 


A    REMINISCENCE.  207 


Being  of  a  quiet,  thoughtful  turn,  a  friendship  soon  sprung 
up  between  Ella  and  myself;  and  whenever  we  met,  we 
always  had  a  passing  word.  I  not  unfrequently  went  into 

Mrs.  L 's  and  sat  with  Ellen  in  the  evening  after  her 

work  was  done  ;  and  while  she  was  sewing  for  herself,  wrould 
read  from  such  books  as  fell  in  my  way.  I  never  could  be 
trifling  or  lightly  familiar  with  her ;  for  her  whole  appear- 
ance and  manner  forbade  any  thing  like  levity  ;  and,  indeed, 
she,  being  then  about  my  own  age,  and  well  grown,  appeared 
so  womanly  alongside  of  me,  that  I  looked  up  to  her  as  one 
somewhat  above  me. 

Mrs.  L ,  who  wras  a  vulgar  minded  woman,  frequently 

came  into  the  dining  room  where  Ellen  sat  in  the  evening, 
wrhile  I  was  there,  and  knowing  me  very  well,  would  often 
pass  some  coarse  jest  upon  Ellen  about  my  "sparking"  her. 
The  color  would  mount  to  the  young  girl's  cheek  whenever 
such  a  sally  wTas  made,  and  she  would  seem  greatly  mortified. 
For  my  own  part,  these  jests  always  made  me  angry — Mary 
Williams,  was  the  one  whose  image  was  ever  in  my  heart, 
sleeping  or  waking,  and  I  could  not  endure  to  think  of  any 
other.  For  Ellen's  lonely  condition  I  felt  great  sympathy ; 
and  also  bought  her  company  often  to  relieve  myself  from 
wearying  thoughts.  The  poor  girl  constantly  looked  for- 
ward to  the  day  on  which  she  would  complete  her  eighteenth 
year,  when  her  term  of  service  would  expire.  It  was  then 
her  intention  to  learn  a  trade,  and  endeavor  to  make  her 
living  in  a  less  laborious  and  more  respectable  way.  I 
always  encouraged  her  in  this  resolution,  and  used  to  advise 
her  to  learn  to  be  a  tailoress. 

Her  time  did  at  last  expire,  and  through  the  influence  of 


208  A   REMINISCEKCE. 


Mary  Williams  she  was  taken  into  our  house  to  learn  a 
trade.  She  was  to  remain  twelve  months,  and  board  away. 

Mrs.  L was  greatly  incensed  at  her  for  leaving,  for  she 

could  not  get  along  without  Ellen,  to  whom  she  had  made 
the  liberal  offer  of  three  dollars  a  month  !  So  bitter  were 
her  feelings  against  the  poor  girl  that  she  would  not  allow 
her  to  board  in  her  house  while  she  learned  her  trade,  to  pay 
for  which  she  offered  to  work  every  night  until  bed  time,  and 
every  morning  until  nine  o'clock.  She  even  went  so  far  as 
to  speak  lightly  of  the  poor  girl,  and  intimate  that  she  was 
not  to  be  trusted  in  all  things.  This  slander  came  to  the 
ears  of  the  upright  and  simple  minded  Ellen,  and  caused  her 
great  distress.  Honest  in  every  thought  and  action,  she  had 
an  instinctive  horror  of  any  thing  like  a  reverse  of  this  cha- 
racter, and  such  an  imputation  upon  herself  crushed  her  spi- 
rits and  saddened  her  heart.  No  one,  however,  believed  the 
selfish  and  vile  slander,  and  the  very  act  of  persecution 
gained  her  friends.  But  a  wounded  spirit  who  can  bear? 
Hard  labor  and  unkind  treatment  she  had  borne,  as  it  was 
her  lot  in  the  world  ;  but  a  slander  upon  her  character  from 
one  whom  she  knew  had  done  it  falsely,  and  from  one  too, 
from  whom  of  all  others  it  should  not  have '  emanated, 
weighed  upon  her  spirits,  and  was  the  first  blow  that  started 
the  foundation  of  a  delicate  constitution. 

An  arrangement  of  the  kind  she  had  contemplated  with 

Mrs.  L was  made  with  a  widow  woman  having  a  small 

family,  who  lived  several  squares  off;  and  poorly  and  thinly 
clad  she  commenced  her  trade  with  Mrs.  Williams  in  Octo- 
ber. She  v  )uld  come  at  nine  o'clock  and  work  until  dark, 
and  then  go  to  her  comfortless  home — it  was  comfortless  in 


A    REMINISCENCE.  209 


every  sense  of  the  word — and  there  toi!3  sometimes  over  the 
washing  tub,  drying  the  clothes  by  the  fire,  and  sometimes 
over  the  ironing  table  until  eleven  and  twelve  o'clock  at 
night.  When  the  washing  and  ironing  were  over,  she  would 
ply  her  needle  to  as  late  an  hour,  to  pay  for  her  boarding, 
which  was  so  poor  as  hardly  to  afford  sufficient  nourishment. 
The  change  from  active  life  to  a  sedentary  one  at  her  age, 
soon  affected  her  health,  and  before  she  had  been  at  her 
trade  six  months  she  was  much  troubled  with  a  pain  in  her 
side,  and  grew  thinner  and  paler  every  day.  Mary  Wil- 
liams soon  noticed  the  change  and  .urged  Ellen  to  take  a 
little  recreation  ;  but  she  was  too  eager  to  finish  her  trade,  that 
she  might  earn  something  with  which  to  replenish  her  scanty 
wardrobe,  and  render  herself  independent.  As  she  began, 
so  did  she  continue  and  finish  her  trade,  working  all  day  for 
Mrs.  Williams,  and  until  eleven  and  twelve  o'clock  at  night 
to  pay  for  her  board.  But  she  took  a  cold,  going  to  and 
from  her  work  during  the  severe  winter  weather,  and  when 
October  returned,  she  was  very  thin  and  pale,  and  had  a 
troublesome  cough.  Unmindful  of  these  painful  indications 
of  failing  health,  she  immediately  took  boarding  at  a  dollar 
and  a  half  a  week,  and  commenced  working  for  herself.  She 
had  seen  more  of  the  heartlessness  of  the  world  in  the  last 
year  than  she  had  ever  before  experienced.  This  with  her 
failing  health,  and  the  yearning  tendencies  of  a  young  heart, 
made  her  thoughtful,  and  even  melancholy.  But  to  sustain 
her,  she  had  the  strengthening  influences  of  religion,  and 
when  desponding  thoughts  would  crowd  upon  her  mind,  she 
would  lay  her  cause  before  Him  who  is  a  Father  to  the  father- 
less, and  fird  comfort  i~  depending  upon  God* 


210  A    REMINISCENCE. 


It  often  fell  to  my  lot  to  carry  her  work,  and  to  go  for  it 
when  finished,  as  I  was  generally  sent  on  errands  of  the  kind. 
We  had  become  better  acquainted  than  ever  since  her  com- 
ing into  the  house  to  learn  her  trade,  and  always,  when  we 
met,  entered  into  familiar  conversation — too  familiar  I  after- 
wards found  for  the  peace  of  one  mind.  She  would  tell  me 
unreservully  of  all  her  little  plans  and  arrangements  for  the 
future  ;  of  all  her  little  hopes  and  fears — how  lonely  and  de- 
solate she  sometimes  felt,  without  a  friend  or  a  relation  in 
the  world,  and  cast  upon  its  restless  surface  to  take  care  of 
herself.  Her  heart  was  full  of  the  yearning  tenderness  of  a 
young  girl — its  aifections  were  feeling  about  for  an  object, 
and  I  soon  became  alarmed  at  finding  that  she  seemed  to  re- 
gard me  with  an  interest  that  I  did  not  wish  her  to  feel — for 
sweet  Mary  Williams  was  my  heart's  idol.  Knowing  how 
lonely  was  her  lot — she  had  not  a  single  female  acquaintance 
of  her  own  age — I  could  not  change  my  manner  towards  her, 
and  yet,  I  feared  for  the  result. 

Since  she  had  been  working  for  herself,  she  was  confined 
in  the  house  much  more  than  ever,  and  took  little  exercise 
within  doors ;  consequently,  her  health  grew  worse,  and  the 
pain  in  her  side  increased  to  such  a  degree,  as  frequently  to 
cause  her  great  distress  and  almost  unfit  her  for  work. 

In  the  pleasant  weather  of  the  next  summer,  I  would  often 
walk  out  with  her  on  a  Sunday  afternoon,  and  we  generally 
bent  our  way  to  a  burying  ground  in  the  suburbs  of  the  city, 
where  lay  buried  the  dear  ones  of  her  heart.  Instinctively 
she  would  direct  her  steps  there,  for  no  where  else  did  there 
seern  any  kind  of  attraction  for  her.  How  many  a  time  have 
I  sat  with  her  beside  thr  two  little  mounds  of  earth  that 


A    REMINISCENCE.  211 


marked  the  spot  where  slept  her  parents,  while  we  conversed 
of  many  things  connected  with  the  hard  lot  of  those  who 
were  necessarily  subordinate  to  such  as  thought  little  of  the 
rights  and  feelings  of  others.  Very  many  times  had  we 
wandered  out  to  this  burying  ground  during  the  summer 
after  she  was  free  from  her  trade.  It  was  that  summer 
which  I  can  never,  never  forget — the  one  in  which  died  sweet 
Mary  Williams.  She  was  not  buried  here — I  could  not 
have  visited  the  spot  had  it  been  the  place  of  her  repose. 
She  had  been  dead  about  a  month,  when  one  Sunday  after- 
noon we  had  taken  our  accustomed  walk,  and  were  seated 
near  the  spot  so  dear  to  Ellen's  heart.  I  was  very  much 
cast  down  in  spirits,  a  fact  which  could  not  escape  Ellen's 
quick  eye — but  she  knew  well  the  cause — knew  it  painfully  ; 
for  I  had,  since  Mary's  death,  told  her  of  my  secret  love  for 
the  dear  girl ;  what  she  had  before  discovered,  for  she  was 
present  when  Mary  Williams  died,  and  had  witnessed  my 
strange  conduct.  Since  opening  to  her  my  heart,  she  had 
been  very  low  m  spirits,  but  still  met  me  as  usual  with  a 
welcome  smile,  whenever  I  called  to  see  her.  Her  health 
which  had  been  giving  away,  had,  since  the  death  of  Mary, 
become  more  rapidly  on  the  decline,  and  now,  as  we  sat  side 
by  side  alone  in  the  burial  ground,  with  the  last  rays  of  the 
setting  sun  glimmering  through  the  distant  trees,  her  cheek 
was  lit  with  a  hectic  glow  that  I  knew  was  too  fatally  bright 
for  health. 

"  Let  us  go  home,  Ellen,"  said  I;  "it  is  growing  late, 
and  I  fear  that  the  damp  evening  air  will  chill  you  before  we 
get  back." 

"  Home,  did  you  say?     How  strangely  that  word  affects 


212  A    REMINISCENCE. 


me  !  I  feel  that  I  have  no  home,  except  it  be  here — and  in 
.this  peaceful  home  how  I  do  long  to  be  laid  at  rest ! " 

"  Don't  talk  so,  Ellen.  You  did  not  use  to  talk  so  once. 
Though  your  lot  was  hard,  you  never  murmured." 

"  No  I  did  not  in  former  times  murmur  at  my  lot,  though 
it  often  seemed  a  hard  one.  But  I  am  strangely  altered  of 
late." 

Poor  girl,  the  capacities  of  her  young  heart  had  become 
enlarged,  and  there  was  nothing  to  fill  them — the  tender 
buds  of  affection  had  put  forth,  and  a  blighting  frost  had 
passed  over  the  opening  blossoms. 

"  But  Ellen,  it  is  vain,  you  know,  thus  to  give  way  to 
your  feelings.  If  we  bear  patiently  a  hard  lot,  it  becomes 
easier.55 

"  I  know  all  the  kind  suggestions  your  kind  heart  would 
make  to  strengthen  my  feelings,  but  a  change,  and  to  me  an 
alarming  change,  has  passed  over  me.  I  am  no  longer  what 
I  was.  Once  I  could  command  my  own  heart,  now  it  leads 
me  away,  and  I  cannot  help  myself.  The  time  was  when  I 
could  look  steadily  away  into  the  future  and  see  that  which 
was  desirable,  and  to  which  I  hoped  to  attain.  ,  This  hope 
supported  me  when  I  had  not  a  single  friend  to  speak  kindly 
to  me.  But  now  there  is  nothing  in  the  future  that  I  desire 
to  have,  and  the  present  is  a  dreary  present.  I  have  seen 
little  here  but  labor,  uncheered  by  smiles  or  encouragement, 
and  realized  nothing  but  disappointments,  and  now  I  desire 
only  to  be  called  home." 

Perhaps  the  fashionable  lady  and  the  heartless  beau  will 
not  sympathize  with  Ellen  Filmore,  a  poor  seamstress — and 
once  a  kitchen  ir>^d.  Let  them  pass  on,  their  sympathy  19 


A    REMINISCENCE.  213 


not  asked.  But  there  are  those  who  can  understand  her 
feelings — a  poor,  single-hearted  girl,  who  had  no  one  to  whom 
she  could  turn  for  that  encouragement  she  so  much  needed, 
now  that  she  was  more  than  ever  alone  in  the  world, — and 
alone  with  declining  health,  added  to  disappointed  affections  ; 
for  I  cannot  disguise  it  from  myself  now,  any  more  than  I 
could  then,  that  she  had  suffered  her  young  heart  to  dwell 
upon  me  too  often  and  too  tenderly.  And  why  should  she 
not  ?  I  was  the  only  one  she  had  ever  found  who  could  and 
did  constantly  sympathize  with  her.  There  is  a  time  when 
the  young  heart  suddenly  awakes  to  consciousness,  and  awakes 
with  bewildering  joy,  or  to  sadness  and  deep  despondency. 
Ellen  had  thus  awakened,  and — to  misery. 

I  replied  not  to  her  last  sorrowful  remark,  but  offered  her 
my  hand  to  assist  her  in  rising ;  and  then  we  both  turned 
towards  home,  just  as  the  sun  had  cast  his  last  smile  over 
the  earth.  We  said  little  by  the  way.  But  we  thought, 
perhaps,  as  we  had  never  thought  before. 

I  did  not  fail  to  call  and  see  Ellen  as  often  as  ever ;  and 
she  was  ever  as  glad  when  I  came.  Steadily  from  morning 
until  late  at  night  she  plied  her  needle,  even  though  she  had 
received  many  sad  tokens  of  failing  health.  But  in  the  latter 
part  of  this  summer  she  was  attacked  with  fainting  fits  when- 
ever she  over-exerted  herself,  and  had  of  necessity  to  relax  ID 
her  industry.  By  this  time  she  had  been  enabled  to  earn 
herself  a  tolerable  good  supply  of  comfortable  and  respectable 
tlothing,  and  as  she  had  a  very  neat  figure,  and  what  I 
would  call  a  handsome  face,  she  made  quite  an  attractive 
appearance.  But  she  had  yet  been  able  to  lay  by  nothing 
and  was  not  unfrequently  so  ill  as  to  cause  her  to  keep  her 


214  A    REMINISCENCE. 


bed  for  a  day  or  two.  Consequently,  she  earned  but  little 
more  than  would  pay  for  her  board,  and  sometimes  not  that. 
The  woman  with  whom  she  boarded,  finding  her  health 
declining,  and  fearing  that  she  would  become  burdensome, 
began  to  treat  her  so  unkindly  as  to  cause  her  to  change  her 
boarding  house.  This  she  bore  patiently  for  awhile,  but 
being  confined  to  her  bed  for  a  week  with  the  pain  in  her 
side,  this  woman  became  so  insolent  and  cruel,  as  to  deter- 
mine her  to  change  so  soon  as  she  was  able  to  go  out.  The 
next  week  she  got  herself  another  boarding  house,  with  a 
kind  widow  lady  whom  I  had  long  known,  and  who  I  knew 
would  be  as  a  mother  to  Ellen.  She  was  four  dollars  behind 
in  her  board  when  she  went  away,  to  secure  which  the  un- 
feeling woman  detained  a  fine  merino  shawl  which  had  cost 
twenty  dollars. 

She  soon  however  obtained  her  shawl,  for  Mrs. with 

whom  she  now  lived,  learning  that  it  was  in  possession  of  her 
former  landlady,  went  immediately  and  redeemed  it.  This 
change  had  a  salutary  effect  upon  Ellen's  spirits,  and  of 
course,  temporarily  upon  her  health.  Mrs.  R was  in- 
deed as  a  mother  to  her,  and  Ellen  repaid  her  with  more  than 
a  daughter's  love  and  gratitude.  But  when  once  that  fell 
destroyer,  consumption,  has  been  feeling  around  the  vitals, 
there  is  little  hope. 

During  the  ensuing  winter,  her  health  declined  very  fast, 
and  she  was  able  to  work  but  little  over  half  of  her  time. 
But,  work  she  felt  that  she  must  so  long  as  she  could  hold  up 
her  head,  for  on  no  one  but  herself  did  she  feel  that  she  had 
any  right  to  depend  for  support. 

To  visit  her  every  Sunday,  as  well  as  through  the  week 


A    REMINISCENCE  215 


whenever  I  could,  had  become  a  habit,  and  a  habit  that  began 
to  accord  more  and  more  with  my  feelings.  So  glad  was  she 
ever  to  see  me,  that  my  heart  at  last  began  to  warm  beneath 
her  sweet  smile,  and  to  return  her  more  than  fraternal 
regard.  A  young  girPs  heart  has  quick  instincts,  and  her's 
soon  discovered  that  mine  was  more  interested  than  it  had 
once  been.  The  light  came  back  to  her  eye,  and  the  glad- 
ness to  her  pale  face,  and  her  voice  had  something  of  its 
wonted  tone.  But  it  was  not  to  last  long.  The  worm  in  the 
bud  had  nearly  done  its  fatal  work,  and  the  fair  promise  of 
life  was  soon  to  fail  forever. 

It  now  became  my  turn  to  suffer  again  as  I  had  but  a  brief 
season  before  suffered.  Ellen  had  become  more  to  me  than  a 
sister,  and  I  could  not  but  see  that  her  way  to  the  tomb  was 
a  steep  one,  and  the  descent  quick.  I  did  not  forget  sweet 
Mary  Williams.  How  could  1 1  How  can  I  even  now  1 
But  Mary  Williams  was  sleeping  the  long  sleep  of  death. 

The  rapid  progress  of  disease,  greatly  accelerated  by  her 
constantly  sitting  over  her  work — for  she  would  sew  as  long 
as  she  could  hold  up  her  head — soon  prostrated  her  system, 
and  she  was  laid  upon  that  bed  from  which  she  was  never  to 
rise  again ;  early  in  the  spring,  even  before  the  earliest  blos- 
soms had  been  warmed  into  life  by  the  genial  sunshine. 
Spring  soon  passed  into  summer,  while  Ellen  failed  rapidly, 
and  when  the  chill  winds  of  October  moaned  through  the 
leafless  boughs,  her  hour  came  to  die.  Her  last  days  had 
been  rendered  comfortable  and  she  was  able  to  look  death  in 
in  the  face  without  shrinking. 

It  was  on  a  Sunday  evening  that  she  died.  I  had  been 
sitting  by  her  bedside  all  through  the  day,  holding  her  hand, 


216  A    REMINISCENCE. 


cold  and  clammy  with  perspiration,  though  she  was  too  weak, 
and  too  insensible  to  surrounding  objects,  to  notice  that  I 
was  near  her.  I  cannot  describe  my  feelings  through  all 
that  day  and  night.  I  had  but  once  before  looked  on  death 
—the  death  of  a  dear  one  too — and  that  but  for  a  few  short 
moments — now  I  looked  upon  the  slow  and  regular  progress 
of  dissolution,  until  my  feelings  were  strung  to  a  painful  in- 
tensity. The  hour  at  length  arrived,  when  the  last  struggle 
was  to  take  place.  I  was  still  seated  by  her  side  and  still 
holding  her  hand  when  the  dreadful  change  passed  over  her. 
I  looked  upon  the  ghastly  contortions  of  her  face,  the  writh- 
ing and  fearful  play  of  the  muscles  about  her  neck,  and 
heard  the  low  strange  moans  of  mortal  agony.  Spell-bound 
I  gazed  upon  her  face,  and  tightly  held  her  cold  hand,  while 
the  gasping  breath  went  and  came,  and  the  faint  pulses  lin- 
gered in  her  veins.  There  were  a  few  convulsive  struggles 
for  breath — a  faint  quivering  of  the  muscles — the  pulse  stopt 
— went  on — stopt  again — moved  once,  twice,  and  all  was 
still.  Oh,  the  desolation  of  that  moment  when  we  feel  that 
one  we  loved  has  gone  forever ! 

And  thus  died  Ellen  Filmore.  Her  lot  was  hard  to  be 
borne,  and  her  journey  through  life  a  cheerless  one — but 
there  are  hundreds  around  us  as  worthy  and  as  neglected  as 
she. 


THE    WATER    SPIRIT.  217 


BY      MISS      ELISABETH      G.      BARBER. 

SPIRIT  !  sweet  spirit,  of  mountain  and  meadow, 
Blessing;  of  summer  and  joy  of  the  May. 

Singing  in  sunlight  and  sighing  in  shadow, 

Soft  is  thy  lay, 
Floating  with  zephyr  and  sunshine  away. 

Where  the  green  willows  are  mournfully  bending, 

Soft  are  thy  melodies,  tender  and  low 
When  thy  bright  waves,  with  the  sunshine  are  blending, 
Gaily  they  flow, 

Singing  and  dancing,  with  smiles  as  they  go. 

Kissed  by  the  moonlight  and  starlight  so  holy, 
Then  thou  dost  waken  thy  tenderest  strain 

Soft  as  Love's  whisper,  as  gentle  and  lowly 

Floats  its  refrain, 
Swe3t  as  the  dropping  of  summer  night's  rain. 

Water  !   bright  water  !    I  joyously  greet  thee, 
Thou  in  the  gladness  of  earth  hast  a  part, 

Whether  in  sunlight  or  shadow  I  meet  thee, 

Welcome  thou  art, 
Bringing  a  blessing  and  joy  to  mv  heart 


218  THE    WATER    SPIRIT. 

In  the  dark  city,  melhinks  thou  dost  borrow 
Beauty,  like  stars,  that  are  clearest  by  night, 

Bringing  to  children  of  toil  and  of  sorrow 

Dreams  of  delight, 
Hours,  when  the  fountains  of  childhood  were  bright. 

Whether  thou  flowest  by  cottage  or  palace, 

Welcome  alike  to  the  peasant  and  king, 
Quaffed  from  the  "  old  oaken  bucket"  or  chalice, 
.  Or  from  the  spring, 

Still  thine  own  boon  of  delight  thou  dost  bring. 

Water,  bright  water !  with  beauty  and  gladness, 
Smile  in  the  sunshine,  and  bid  us  be  gay, 

Not  like  the  Circean  cup,  with  its  madness 

Stealing  away, 
Binding  the  soul,  with  its  tyrannous  sway. 

No  !  thou  art  holy,  the  type  of  that  river — 
Kiver  of  Life  in  our  Father's  own  land — 

Where  we  shall  quaff  its  bright  waters  forever 

Led  by  His  hand, 
When  in  His  holiest  presence  we  stand. 

Spirit  sing  on,  with  thy  melodies  flowing, 
Sunlight  and  starlight,  thy  waters  shall  lave 

Loveliest  gift  of  our  Father's  bestowing, 

Earth  ever  gave, 
Crowned  with  His  smile,  there  is   "  Light  on  the  Wave." 

H*  ••  «N. 


219 


BY     MRS.     R.     S.      NICHOLS. 

THEY  have  thrown  tip  the  earth — they  have  rent  the  green  sod ; 
And  have  heaped  on  his  bosom  the  valley's  cold  clod  ; — 
They  have  left  the  strong  man  in  the  bond  of  the  grave, 
Whom  no  chains  could  enfetter,  no  foeman  enslave ; 
And  the  sword  of  the  hero  lies  dim  in  the  sheath, 
Where  it  fell  from  his  hand  in  the  shadow  of  Death. 

They  have  wailed  him  in  music — the  muffled  drum  beat 
As  he  passed  to  his  home  through  the  crowd  heaving  street  t 
And  the  trappings  of  war,  with  the  saddle  of  wo, 
Lightly  hung  o'er  the  form  of  the  sleeper  below  : — 
Of  the  good  and  the  brave — of  the  noble  and  just 
There  remain  but  a  name,  and  an  image  in  dust ! 

He  has  gone  from  the  earth  in  his  strength  and  his  prime. 
To  the  beautiful  Land  on  the  borders  of  Time ; 
To  the  land  of  the  peaceful — the  clime  of  the  Blest ; 
Where  the  soul  of  the  Hero  from  battle  shall  rest ; 
For  he  fought  his  last  fight  as  he  gave  his  last  breath, 
And  the  victor  is  known  as  the  Conqueror,  Death  ! 

Let  his  name,  then,  the  watchword  of  Liberty  be, 
While  the  blue,  red  and  white  shall  wave  over  the  free, 
K;ing  the  laurels  which  fell  from  his  brow  in  their  bloom 
On  the  cloud-piercing  shaft  that  shall  point  out  the  tomb 
Where  the  chieftain,  who  died  in  the  fulness  of  trust, 
Lowly  lies  h  his  grave,  in  a  mantle  of  dust ! 


220  LOUISE    OF    LORRAINE. 


BY     AGNES     STRICKLAND. 

AN  unwonted  smoke  was  seen  ascending  from  the  tall, 
turret-shaped  chimneys  of  the  old  castle  of  Vaudemont,  the 
feudal  residence  of  Nicolas  Due  de  Mercoeur  and  Count  de 
Vaudemont ;  while  the  savory  steams  that  mingled  with  the 
clear  mountain  air,  gave  evidence  of  preparations  for  some 
extraordinary  festivity.  The  occasion  of  this  bustle  in  the 
kitchen  was  a  supper  to  be  given  in  honor  of  the  marriage  of 
the  Lady  Louise,  the  eldest  daughter  of  the  illustrious  house 
of  Lorraine  Vaudemont,  with  the  Count  de  Brienne ;  a 
ceremony  which  her  father  had  decreed  should  take  place 
that  evening,  although  the  consent  of  the  reluctant  bride  had 
been  obstinately  withheld. — This,  however,  was  a  preliminary 
that,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  was  not  considered  indis- 
pensable. 

The  Due  de  Mercoeur  was  one  of  those  luckless  collaterals 
of  a  semi -royal  house,  who  are  doomed  to  support,  with  very 
inadequate  means,  a  station  in  society  in  accordance  rather 
with  their  ancestral  dignity,  than  their  actual  fortunes. 

He  was  uncle  to  the  reigning  Duke  of  Lorraine,  and, 
having  inherited  little  more  than  the  barren  lands,  and  title 
of  Count  de  Vaudemont,  he  had  imprudently  taken,  for  his 
wife,  the  dowerless  orphan  of  the  heroic  Count  Egmont 


LOUISE   OF   LORRAINE.  221 

She,  however,  died,  leaving  him  the  father  of  two  fair  daugh- 
ters, Louise  and  Marguerite.  His  second  choice  was  directed 
by  motives  of  interest ;  for  he  married  the  heiress  of  an  illus- 
trious family,  from  whom  he  derived  some  wealth,  and  the 
title  of  Due  de  Mercoeur ;  but  his  new  alliance  was  produc- 
tive of  an  offspring  so  numerous,  that,  after  a  time,  he  found 
himself  almost  as  much  embarrassed  with  pecuniary  cares,  as 
when  he  first  succeeded  to  his  stinted  patrimonial  domain. 
He  looked  with  peculiar  anxiety  to  the  children  of  his  first 
wife,  having  no  means  of  providing  for  them  ;  but  his  careful 
Duchess,  who  regarded  with  a  jealous  eye  her  husband's 
affection  for  these  portionless  maidens,  took  the  trouble  of 
negociating  a  marriage  for  Louise  with  the  wealthy  Count 
Brienne,  a  kinsman  of  her  own. 

Louise  was  just  eighteen ;  the  Count  was  fifty -five,  and 
very  unprepossessing  in  his  person  and  manners  ;  but,  had 
he  been  the  handsomest  peer  in  France,  it  would  have  been 
the  same  to  Louise,  whose  heart  was  given  to  another.  She 
was,  in  truth,  secretly  betrothed  to  the  young  Count  Charles 
of  Salm  ;  but  his  friends  were,  not  less  than  her  own,  averse 
to  the  marriage. 

Louise,  however,  was  determined  to  endure  every  persecu- 
tion, rather  than  resign  the  object  of  her  first  affections.  In 
this  resolution  she  was  supported  by  her  sister  Marguerite, 
who  though  one  year  younger  than  herself,  was  of  a  far  more 
energetic  and  decided  character.  .L,  *'se  was  all  gentleness 
and  feminine  softness  ;  though  under  the  ordinary  stature  of 
women,  her  form  exhibited  the  grace  and  symmetry  of  a 
fairy.  Marguerite  was  tall  and  majestic,  as  well  as  grace- 
ful, and  had  the  step  and  air  of  an  empress.  She  too  had  air 


222  LOUISE    OF    LORRAINE. 


unprosperous  love  affair  upon  her  hands,  for  she  was  beloved 
by  Joyeuse,  whose  haughty  father  had  banished  him  to  the 
Court  of  Poland,  to  prevent  any  farther  intercourse  between 
him  and  a  daughter  of  the  house  of  Lorraine  Vaudemont. 

Yet  Marguerite  neither  wept  nor  despaired,  she  relied  im- 
plicitly on  the  constancy  of  Joyeuse,  and  was  only  seventet  i. 
It  was  when  she  observed  the  pale  cheek  and  tearful  eye  of 
poor  Louise,  that  she  first  knew  what  it  was  to  be  unhappy  ; 
for  Louise  reposed  all  her  griefs  in  her  sister's  bosom,  and 
appeared  to  depend  on  her  master-mind  for  support,  and 
even  for  deliverance  from  her  difficulties. 

On  the  memorable  evening  of  which  1  speak  Louise  entered 
her  sister's  apartment  with  a  distracted  air,  and  flinging  her- 
self upon  a  couch,  exclaimed,  "  It  is  all  over,  and  nothing  is 
left  for  me,  but  to  submit  to  the  wretched  destiny  that  waits 
me,  and  to  become  the  wife  of  Count  Brienne." 

"  You  shall  do  no  such  thing,"  replied  Marguerite. 

"  Marguerite,  resistance  is  of  no  avail — the  sacrifice  is 
inevitable." 

"  Say  not  so,  my  sister  ;  you  have  only  as  a  last  resource, 
to  declare  yourself  under  contract  of  marriage  with  another, 
and  appeal  to  the  church  for  protection." 

"  Ah  !  Marguerite,  Marguerite,  you  know  not  what  has 
occurred  since  I  saw  you  last." 

"  Yes,  I  do ;  I  am  perfectly  aware  that  a  considerable 
slaughter  has  taken  pV  e  in  the  poultry -yard,  and  that  the 
fatted  calf  has  been  killed  for  a  supper,  in  honor  of  a  bridal 
which  never  will  be  celebrated,  if  you  exhibit  a  proper  degree 
of  spirit,  and  produce  your  contract  wTith  Charles  of  Salm.?) 

"  Charles  of  Salm  !"  exclaimed  Louise,  violently  agitated  ; 


LOUISE    0^    LORRAINE.  223 


"  ah ,  Marguerite,  name  him  not,  he  is  a  worthless  recreant, 
whom  I  now  despise  a  thousand  times  more  than  I  hate  the 
Count  de  Brienne.  I  am  now  no  longer  under  contract  of 
marriage  to  him,  my  sister ;  for  I  have  torn  the  paper,  and 
released  him  from  his  boyish  love-plight,  as  he  inconstantly 
styled  our  solemn  betrothment." 

"  When  was  this,  Louise,  and  how  did  it  occur  ?" 

;c  Oh,  ask  me  not,  my  sister — it  is  enough  that  he,  on 
whom  I  relied  for  support  in  the  crisis  of  my  fate,  has  proved 
faithless,  and  now  there  is  nothing  left  for  me  but  to  wed 
the  Count  de  Brienne,  and  die." 

"  Hush,  hush,  my  sweet  Louise !  you  shall  not  thus  aban- 
don yourself  to  despair ;  nor  is  it  a  matter  of  necessity,  that 
because  the  man  you  love  has  proved  unworthy  of  you,  you 
should  mar  your  peace  for  life,  by  wedding  another  who  is 
abhorrent  to  you.  No,  no,  be  ruled  by  me,  and  inflict  on 
the  Count  de  Brienne  a  little  of  the  pain  which  the  recreant 
Salm  has  caused  you  7  " 

While  the  sisters  were  thus  discoursing,  Louise  received  a 
summons  to  attend  her  father,  whom  she  found  with  the 
Duchess,  her  step-mother,  engaged  in  earnest  conversation 
with  the  Count  de  Brienne  and  family  priest. 

"  I  did  not  send  for  you,"  said  the  Duke,  turning  an  an- 
gry glance  upon  Marguerite,  who  had  followed  the  pale  and 
sinking  Louise. 

"  I  came  to  support  my  sister,  my  lord,"  replied  Mar- 
guerite. 

;c  And  to  encourage  her  in  her  perversity,  I  suppose," 
said  the  Duke,  "  but,  now,  damsels,  I  will  be  trifled  with  no 
longer,  the  tapers  are  now  lighted  en  the  altar  of  the  chapel, 


22-1  LOUISE    OF    LORRAINE. 


in  readiness  for  the  spousal  rite,  and  within  one  nour,  you, 
Louise  of  Lorraine,  will  be  the  wife  of  the  Count  de 
Brienne." 

"  I  will  never  enter  the  chapel  for  such  a  purpose,"  said 
Louise,  seating  herself  resolutely  on  the  lowest  step  of  the 
dais." 

"  Nay,"  returned  her  father,  taking  her  by  the  arm,  and 
forcibly  lifting  her  fairy  form  from  the  lowly  seat  she  had 
taken,  "  you'll  go,  even  if  I  am  at  the  trouble  of  carrying 
you  thither  in  my  arms,  like  a  perverse  baby  as  you  are." 

"  But  no  power  on  earth  can  compel  me  to  pronounce  the 
fatal  vow,"  observed  Louise. 

"  So  said  the  royal  Marguerite  of  France,"  responded  the 
Duke,  "  when  it  was  deemed  expedient  to  wed  her  to  Henry 
of  Navaure  ;  yet  it  availed  her  nothing  that  she  remained 
obstinately  silent,- for  our  late  lord,  King  Charles,  (whose 
soul  may  our  lady  assoiled)  in  the  face  of  all  Paris  compelled 
her  to  signify  an  assent  by  placing  his  hand  upon  the  back 
of  her  neck,  and  forcing  her  stubborn  head  to  bow;  and 
cannot  I  do  the  same  by  thee  ?  " 

"  Courage ! "  whispered  Marguerite  to  her  trembling 
sister,  "  I  predict  a  rescue  !  " 

"What  said  you  to  Louise,  you  audacious  one?"  de- 
manded the  Duke,  sternly. 

"  I  was  advising  her  to  compose  herself,  my  lord :  for  I 
hear  horsemen  approaching  the  castle." 

"  Horsemen !  who  should  come  to  Vaudemont  at  this 
hour?" 

"  Persons  of  importance  I  should  judge,  from  that  bold 
bugle  blast,"  responded  Marguerite. 


LOUISE    OF   LORRAINE.  225 


The  horn,  indeed,  was  sounded  so  long  and  lustily,  as  to 
startle  the  lord  ;f  the  castle  from  his  immediate  purpose. 

"  Open,  in  the  name  of  the  King  of  France  ! "  was  the 
reply  to  the  warder's  challenge 

When  this  demand  was  communicated  to  the  Due  de 
Mercoeur,  he  proceeded  forthwith  to  the  gates  to  hold  a 
parley  with  the  party  by  whom  this  unexpected  requisition 
was  made  ;  and,  opening  a  window  about  six  inches  square, 
he  inquired  in  a  loud  tone,  "  Who  be  ye,  and  what  would 
you  of  the  lord  of  Vaudemont?  " 

"  Open,  in. the  name  of  the  King  of  France!"  was  the 
response. 

"  The  King  of  France  is  dead,"  replied  the  Duke. 

"  The  King  of  France  never  dies  ! "  thundered  a  chorus 
of  stern  voices  from  without. 

"  Charles  the  Ninth  sleeps,"  said  the  Due  de  Mercoeur, 
correcting  his  first  somewhat  unconstitutional  assertion. 

"  Henry  the  Third  is  awake.  Open,  therefore,  in  his 
name  ! "  rejoined  another  voice,  which  startled  the  cautious 
vassal  of  the  vacant  throne  of  France ;  but  these  not  being 
times  in  which  it  was  safe  to  commit  mistakes  in  the  admis- 
sion of  guests,  he  replied  : 

"  Henry  the  Third  is  in  his  far  northern  kingdom  of  Po- 
land. We  know  not  whether  he  hath  so  much  as  heard  the 
news  of  our  late  lord's  decease  ;  and  even  if  the  tidings 
reached  him  by  a  swift  messenger,  there  hath  been  no  time 
for  him  to  gain  the  French  frontier." 

"  Henry  the  Third  is  at  thy  gates,"  returned  the  other ; 
"  they  travel  quick  who  ride  to  win  a  throne.  Fling  back 
thy  portal,  and  let  iA  be  thy  boast  among  thy  peers,  that 


226  LOUISE    OF   LORRAIXE. 

thou  wert  the  first  to  render  homage  to  thy  sovereign  in  his 
own  dominions." 

At  these  words  the  portcullis  was  hastily  raised,  the  jea- 
lously barred  gates  were  thrown  open,  and  the  lord  of  the 
castle,  with  bare  head  and  bended  knee,  greeted  the  fore- 
most of  the  advancing  company ;  who,  flinging  back  his 
dark  travelling  cloak,  and  raising  his  plumed  hat  from  his 
brow,  revealed  the  strikingly  handsome  features  of  Henry  of 
Anjou,  King  of  Poland,  and  the  successor  to  the  throne  of 
France. 

"  By  St.  Dennis  !  my  lord  Duke,  but  this  is  a  cold  wel- 
come on  the  frontier  of  my  own  kingdom,"  exclaimed  he. 

"  I  crave  your  pardon,  my  gracious  lord ;  but  these  are 
troublesome  times  for  the  vassal  peers  of  France.  The  Hu- 
guenots are  in  motion,  and  we  being  engaged  in  important 
family  matters  when  your  knights  were  pleased  to  summon 
us,  our  wits  were  not  so  clear  as  they  might  have  been." 

"  So  it  should  appear,  lord  duke,"  rejoined  the  sovereign. 

"  I  hope,  Sire,"  pursued  the  mortified  lord  of  Vaudemont, 
"  you  do  me  the  justice  to  believe " 

"  That  you  are  not  disposed  to  waste  your  hospitality  on 
unknown  vagrants,"  replied  the  king,  laughing.  "  The 
days  of  chivalry  are  well  nigh  over.  A  plague  on  these  Hu- 
guenots and  their  preachers  !  We  may  thank  them  for  that 
change  ;  so  no  more  apologies,  but  let  us  taste  your  Vaude- 
mont pigeons,  if  you  have  naught  else  in  your  larder  to  set 
before  us,  for  we  are  as  hungry  as  Saracens  ! " 

"  My  gracious  lord,"  replied  the  duke,  "  we  are  but  a 

younger  branch  of  the  house  of  Lorraine,  it  is  true,  and 

our  cheer  is  humble,  as  you  suppose,  but,  thanks 


I-OUISE    OF    LORRAINE.  227 

be  to  the  saints  !  our  larder  will  furnish  forth  something 
beyond  pigeons  for  your  royal  refection." 

"  0,  I  crave  you  pardon  ! "  replied  the  king,  "  I  spoke 
merely  to  put  you  at  your  ease,  should  you  have  already 
supped,  as  it  is  past  eight  o'clock." 

"  Our  evening  meal,  was  for  family  reasons,  ordered  two 
hours  later  than  usual,"  returned  the  Duke  with  great  so- 
lemnity, "  and  if  I  mistake  not,  is  ready  to  be  placed  on 
the  board." 

"  Then,  I  pray  you,  order  it  to  be  served  forthwith," 
rejoined  the  king. 

The  dishes  which  had  been  prepared  for  the  bridal  supper 
were  immediately  put  in  requisition  to  furnish  forth  the  royal 
cheer.  King  Henry  and  his  company  were  agreeably  sur- 
prised at  the  appearance  of  a  banquet  which  so  far  exceeded 
all  reasonable  expectations,  and  paid  many  compliments  to 
the  Duke  and  Duchess  on  their  excellent  housekeeping. 

"  By  the  soul  of  St.  Louis !  ye  nobles  of  the  provinces 
live  well ;  "  cried  the  monarch,  after  he  had  done  ample  jus- 
tice to  the  fish,  flesh,  fowl,  and  pastry,  "  I  protest  I  have 
not  even  seen  such  a  feast  as  this,  since  I  took  my  farewell 
of  my  good  city  of  Paris.  You  must  be  a  rich  man,  my 
lord  duke,  and  you  cook  such  suppers  every  night  at  Vau- 
demont." 

"  Sire,"  replied  the  Duke,  u  this  is  not  our  usual  fare ; 
for,  truth  to  tell,  this  supper  was  provided  in  honor  of  the 
espousals  of  my  eldest  daughter,  whose  marriage  your  royal 
visit  has  for  the  present  postponed." 

"  I  owe  the  fair  bride  many  apologies,  by  my  fay,"  re- 
t)lied  the  king ;  "  and  all  the  amends  I  can  ofier  to  her,  is  to 


228  LOUISE    OF    LORRAINE. 

bestow  her  with  mine  own  hand  on  the  bridegroom,  to- 
morrow  morning,  before  we  depart  from  Vaudemont." 

"  Your  grace  will  render  us  an  unspeakable  honor,"  said 
the  duke. 

"  I  have  also  to  crave  the  pardon  of  the  bridegroom  for 
the  disappointment  of  which  I  have  unintentionally  been  the 
cause,"  observed  the  king.  "  I  pray  you  make  him  known 
tc  me,  my  lord  duke.  By  my  halidom  ! "  continued  the 
monarch,  laughing,  when  the  duke,  with  much  formality, 
presented  the  Count  de  Brienne,  you  are  a  bold  man,  Count, 
to  adventure  on  plighting  faith  with  a  lady  whose  father  is 
evidently  your  junior.  May  we  not  see  the  fair  bride  ?  " 

But  the  poor  bride  had  availed  herself  of  the  confusion 
caused  by  the  royal  visit,  to  retreat  with  Marguerite  to  the 
sanctuary  of  her  own  apartment,  having  little  desire  to  ex- 
hibit her  tear-swollen  eyes  and  pale  cheeks  to  strangers. 

The  sist-ers  were  presently  joined  by  their  fille  de  chambre, 
Sophie,  who  came  dancing  into  the  apartment  with  crimsoned 
cheeks  and  sparkling  eyes,  exclaiming, 

"  Oh,  Holy  Virgin  !  what  an  arrival  is  here  !  " 

"  An  arrival ! "  cried  Marguerite,  "  is  it  my  joyeuse  ?" 

"  Your  young  ladyship  is  a  passing  shrewd  guesser," 
cried  Sophie :  "  but  who  think  ye,  cometh  with  him?" 

"Charles  of  Salm?"  whispered  Louise  in  a  faltering 
voice. 

"  Nay ;  to  what  purpose  should  the  recreant  count  come 
here,  since  your  ladyship  would  never  see  nor  speak  to  him 
again  ?  But  it  is  a  true-hearted — ay,  and  a  royal  bachelor 
of  whom  I  speak." 

"  The  king?"  cried  Marguerite,  at  a  venture- 


LOUISE    O*    LORRAINE.  229 


"  Ah,  the  king — the  king,  young  ladies  ! "  returned  So- 
phie, "  and  I  would  advise  you  both  to  steal  a  look  at  him 
as  he  passeth  to  his  chamber ;  ye  may  never  see  so  goodly  a 
sight  again,  for  he  is  accounted  the  handsomest  prince  in  the 
world.  The  heretic  Queen  of  England  weareth  the  willow 
for  his  sake,  they  say  :  and  he  was  compelled  to  fly  from 
Poland  by  night,  because  the  Polish  ladies  said  they  could 
not  part  with  so  beautiful  a  sovereign." 

"  My  good  Sophie,  what  nonsense  you  are  talking  ! "  in- 
terrupted Louise,  impatiently. 

"  As  you  please,  my  lady  Louise ;  however,  if  I  were  in 
your  place,  I  would  seek  this  amiable  sovereign  before  he 
leaves  the  castle,  and  implore  his  royal  interference  to  pre- 
serve you  from  this  odious  marriage.55 

"  Excellent ! "  cried  Marguerite ;  "  come  dry  your  eyes, 
Louise,  and  to-morrow  you  shall  make  your  appeal  to  the 
king  in  person." 

"  Hark  ! "  cried  Sophie,  "  the  folding  doors  are  thrown 
open  ;  he  is  now  going  to  his  chamber  ;" 

Away  ran  the  fair  sisters  to  reconnoitre  the  monarch  as 
he  ascended  the  stairs. 

ic  Ah,  how  handsome  he  is ! 5)  cried  Louise,  peeping  over 
the  balustrade. 

There  was  a  singular  echo  on  the  staircase  of  Vaudemont, 
which  caused  the  flattering  exclamation  to  reach  the  royal 
ear :  and,  looking  up,  King  Henry  perceived  and  saluted, 
with  a  profound  reverence,  the  pretty  simple  trio,  who  were 
regarding  him  with  such  unequivocal  tokens  of  admiration. 

Louise  felt  as  if  she  could  have  sunk  into  the  earth,  as  she 
hastily  retreated  from  her  station,  covered  with  blushes. 


230  LOUISE    OF    JLOKRAINE. 

"  Alas  !"  cried  she,  "  I  shall  never  dare  present  myself 
before  King  Henry,  now  !  " 

"  Nonsense  !  he  will  be  the  more  disposed  to  give  you  a 
favorable  hearing,"  replied  Marguerite. 

They  were  now  interrupted  by  a  visit  from  the  Duchess  de 
Mercoeur,  who  came  to  apprise  Louise  of  the  honor  designed 
her  by  the  king,  in  condescending  to  bestow  her  in  marriage 
on  the  Count  de  Brienne,  with  his  own  hand,  and  exhorted 
her  to  conduct  herself  in  a  becoming  manner  on  this  im- 
portant occasion. 

A  look  and  a  sign  from  Marguerite  induced  Louise  to  re- 
ceive this  communication  with  patience.  The  duchess  com- 
mended her  for  returning  to  reason,  presented  her  with  a 
handsome  addition  to  her  bridal  jewels,  and  withdrew. 

Marguerite,  who,  on  the  following  morning,  had  arisen  with 
the  lark,  and  procured  an  interview  with  her  beloved  Joyeuse, 
before  her  sister  was  awake,  now  hastened  to  dispel  Louise's 
slumbers,  and  assisted  her  bower  maiden  to  set  off  her  natural 
charms  to  the  best  advantage;  not  by  dressing  her  in  the 
costly  bridal  garb  that  had  been  prepared  for  her  intended 
nuptials,  but  in  a  simple  white  robe,  that  flowed  in  soft  easy 
folds  round  her  graceful  form  ;  and  combing  her  beautiful 
fair  hair  in  natural  ringlets ;  that  were  simply  confined  by  a 
fillet  of  pearls,  to  which  her  veil  was  attached.  She  then  put 
into  her  hand  a  basket  of  fresh  flowers  which  had  been 
gathered  and  arranged  that  morning,  and  bade  her  seek  the 
king  at  the  shrine  of  our  Lady  of  Vaudemont,  in  the  woods, 
whither,  Joyeuse  had  informed  her  Henry  would  proceed  to 
pay  his  vows,  alone,  at  six  o'clock  that  morning. 

Louise,  with  a  beating  heart,  sought  the  littie  sanctuary, 


LOUISE    OF    LORRAINE.  231 

but  not  daring  to  enter  it,  she  seated  herself  at  the  bottom  of 
the  steps  leading  to  the  chapel ;  and  when  the  king  came 
forth,  she  rose,  put  back  her  veil,  and  bending  her  knee, 
offered  him  her  flowers  with  downcast  eyes. 

The  king,  greatly  charmed  with  the  touching  simplicity  of 
nor  appearance,  selected  a  half-blown  Provence  rose  and  a 
sprig  of  victory  laurel  from  her  basket,  and  placed  them  in 
his  bosom  with  one  hand,  while  with  the  other  he  offered  to 
raise  her  from  her  kneeling  attitude. 

"  No,"  she  replied  ;  "  I  am  a  suppliant  to  your  majesty, 
and  cannot  rise  till  you  have  granted  my  petition." 

"  Declare  it,  then,  fair  maid,"  replied  the  king,  who  im- 
mediately recognised  the  voice  that  had,  on  the  preceding 
night,  uttered  the  exclamation  so  peculiarly  gratifying  to  his 
personal  vanity. 

"  All  I  ask,"  said  Louise,  raising  her  soft  blue  eyes  to  her 
sovereign's  face,  "  is  your  gracious  protection  from  a  cruel 
doom,  in  which;  they  tell  me,  you  are  about  to  act  the  part 
of  the  executioner." 

"  Indeed  !"  replied  the  king ;  "  my  enemies  give  me 
credit  for  being-  a  great  barbarian,  then  ;  but  }^ou  are  talking 
in  riddles,  my  fair  damsel ;  so  be  pleased  to  tell  me  who  you 
are,  and  what  you  desire  of  me  ?  " 

"  Sire,"  returned  she,  "  I  am  a  poor  motherless 
maiden,  and  my  father  hath  been  wrought  upon  by  my 
cruel  step-dame,  to  promise  me  in  marriage  to  the  most 
unloveable  old  peer  in  France ;  and  the  sacrifice  would 
Lave  been  made  last  night,  in  spite  of  all  my  tears  and 
remonstrances,  had  not  you  arrived,  like  my  guardian 
angel,  to  prevent  it." 


232  LOUISE    OF    LORRAINE. 

"  Ka,  ha  !"  cried  the  king,  laughing  ;  "  are  you  the  young 
lady  whose  bridal  cheer  I  so  unceremoniously  devoured  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sire  ;  but  you  have  done  worse  than  that,  if  they 
say  truth,  who  tell  me  that  you  have  promised  to  bestow  me 
upon  the  Count  de  Brienne,  this  morning.55 

"  They  told  you  the  truth,"  said  the  king  gravely. 

"  Oh  heavens  !  but  you  will  not  commit  so  barbarous  an 
act ! — ah  !  if  you  could  but  know  how  much  I  detest  him." 

"  Poor  man  !  he  is  greatly  to  be  pitied." 

"  Pitied  !"  cried  Louise,  in  surprise. 

"  Yes,  sweet  Louise,  pitied  for  being  so  much  the  object 
of  your  dislike." 

"  Ah !  sire,  you  are  pleased  to  make  sport  of  my 
calamity." 

"  By  no  means  ;  but  perhaps  it  is  in  my  power  to  render 
Brienne  more  agreeable  to  you  ;  suppose,  now,  I  were  to 
make  him  a  duke  1 " 

"  If  your  majesty  were  to  make  him  a  king,  he  would  still 
be  the  object  of  my  aversion." 

"  Poor  Brienne  !  he  is  very  unfortunate ;  but  perhaps, 
lovely  Louise,  you  have  fixed  your  affections  on  another," 
said  the  king,  taking  the  pretty  suppliant  by  both  her  hands 
and  looking  earnestly  in  her  face. 

"No;  I  hate— all  men!" 

"Oh,  you  hard-hearted  little  tyrant !  but  I  shall  not  in- 
terfere to  procure  you  the  satisfaction  of  leading  a  single  life, 
believe  me,"  said  the  king,  "  especially  since  you  are  so  un- 
kindly disposed  towards  me." 
1 "  Towards  you,  sire  ! " 

"  Ay  :  you  told  me  just  now  that  you  hated  all  men  ! " 


LOUISE    OF    LOR&AINE.  233 

"  Except  my  king,"  rejoined  Louise. 

"  You  are  very  kind,  to  make  an  exception  in  my 
favor." 

"  One  must  love  the  king,"  observed  Louise  ;  "  it  would 
be  treason  not  to  do  so." 

"  I  fear  there  are  many  traitors  in  France,5'  was  the 
rejoinder. 

"  I  am  not  among  them,  sire,  I  protest  to  you,"  said 
Louise,  earnestly  raising  her  eyes  to  his  face. 

The  king  thought  her  very  charming,  and  resolved  to 
carry  on  the  dialogue  with  the  lovely  petitioner. 

"  Come,  give  me  some  proofs  of  your  loyalty; "  said  he. 

"  In  the  first  place,  sire,  I  always  pray  for  you." 

"  Good  ;  but  how  long  have  you  done  that  ?  " 

"  Ever  since  the  death  of  your  royal  brother,  King 
Charles." 

"  Humph  !  a  whole  fortnight,"  said  the  king.  u  But, 
Louise,"  he  inquired,  after  a  pause,  "  what  are  your  objec- 
tions to  the  Count  de  Brienne?  " 

"  Sire,  they  are  innumerable.  He  is  old,  ugly,  formal, 
and  very  disagreeable  ;  and  if  your  majesty  will  not,  in  cha- 
rity, find  some- way  of  delivering  me  from  his  pertinacity,  I 
shall  be  compelled  to  vow  myself  a  nun,  which  I  would 
rather  not  do." 

"  Well,"  said  the  king,  "  there  are  three  ways  in  which 
I  can  work  your  deliverance.  In  the  first  place,  I  can  rake 
up  an  old  ofience  of  his  against  my  brother  Francis,  which, 
I  think,  with  a  little  straining  of  evidence  will  enable  me  to 
bring  him  to  the  block." 

"  Sire,  I  do  not  wish  you  to  take  his  wretched  life." 


234:  LOUISE    OF   LORRAINE. 

"  Shall  I  interrupt  the  ceremony,  then,  by  arresting  your 
cruel  father,  and  sending  him  to  the  Bastile  ?  55 

"  Not  for  a  thousand  worlds  ! 55 

"  Then,  only  one  alternative  is  left :  I  must  find  a  more 
agreeable  husband  for  you.55 

Louise  began  to  weep  afresh.  "  Have  I  not  told  you, 
sire,  that  I  hate  men  ! 55 

"  Humph  !  I  thought  you  made  one  exception  ! 55  observed 
the  king,  looking  into  her  eyes. 

"  Yes,  one  only.55 

"  Positively,  you  flatter  me  too  highly.'5 

"  But,  sire,55  supplicated  Louise,  "  you  will  deliver  me 
from  the  Count  de  Brienne  ? 55 

"  Have  I  not  obligingly  offered  to  cut  off  the  tiresome  old 
fellow's  head  for  you  ?  55 

"  All  I  ask,  my  liege,  is  that  you  would  but  condescend  to 
forbid  the  marriage.5' 

"  Well,  I  promise — will  that  content  you  ?  Have  you 
any  other  request  to  prefer  ?  " 

"  Sire,  you  are  very  gracious,  and  embolden  me  to  implore 
of  you  to  favor  the  marriage  between  Joyeuse  and  my  sister 
Marguerite.55 

"  Are  the  parties  agreed  ?  55 

"  Sire,  they  love  each  other  to  distraction.55 

"  More  fools  they !  What  are  the  obstacles  to  their 
union  ? 55 

"  The  cruel  opposition  of  his  father,  sire.5 

"  I  will  engage  to  procure  his  consent.55 

"  How  very  amiable  your  majesty  is  ! 55 

"  You   are  a   charming   girl,55    said   the    king,    smiling ; 


LOUISE    OF   LORRAINE.  235 

"  but  have  you  no  love  affair  of  your  own,  Louise,  in  which 
I  could  stand  your  friend  ?  "  continued  he,  regarding  her 
with  a  penetrating  look. 

u  Alas,  no  !  "  replied  Louise. 

"  You  have  no  wish  to  be  married,  then  ?  " 

"  None.35 

"  Farewell  then,  for  the  present.  Remember,  you  may 
rely  on  me." 

Louise  pressed  the  hand  of  her  sovereign  to  her  lips, 
courtesied,  and  withdrew. 

The  Due  de  Mercoeur,  fearing  resistance  on  the  part  of 
the  reluctant  bride,  came  himself  to  conduct  her  into  the 
royal  presence. 

Her  serene  demeanor  surprised  him,  as  he  had  expected 
to  find  her  in  agonies  of  despair.  However,  he  made  no 
remark  on  the  alteration  in  her  deportment ;  but  concluding 
that  the  new  and  costly  additions  to  her  bridal  jewels,  which 
he  had  deemed  it  expedient  for  his  duchess  to  present  to  her, 
on  account  of  the  share  the  sovereign  was  about  to  take  in 
the  ceremonial,  had  the  effect  of  reconciling  Louise  to  her 
marriage  with  the  Count  de  Brienne,  he  took  her  by  the 
hand,  and,  followed  by  Marguerite,  proceeded  to  the  chapel. 

u  May  it  please  your,  majesty,"  said  the  Due  de  Mer- 
coeur, leading  the  blushing  girl  to  his  sovereign's  feet,  "  this 
damsel  is  my  eldest  daughter,  whom  I  have  now  the  honor 
of  presenting  to  you.  Louise,  perform  your  homage  to  your 
royal  master." 

Louise  would  have  knelt  and  kissed  the  king's  hand,  but 
the  monarch,  gracefully  preventing  her,  saluted  her  on  the 
cheek. 


236  LOUISE    OF   LORE      NE. 

"  You  are  very  fortunate,  my  lord  duke,"  observed  he, 
u  in  being  the  father  of  so  charming  a  daughter." 

"  Sire,  you  make  us  only  too  proud,"  said  the  duke,  "  this 
is  the  maiden,  my  liege,  whom  you  were  graciously  pleased 
to  promise  to  bestow  in  marriage  on  the  Count  de  Brienne." 

"  Indeed  ! "  exclaimed  the  king,  who  had  continued  to 
gaze  on  the  trembling  Louise,  with  manifest  admiration. 
"  Did  I  really  make  so  rash  a  promise  ?  " 

"  Upon  the  honor  of  a  peer  of  France,  you  did,  my 
liege,"  said  the  duke. 

"  Nay,  then  it  was  before  I  had  seen  the  maiden,  or  I 
never  could  have  promised  to  give  her  to  another ;"  returned 
the  enamoured  monarch. 

"  To  another,"  cried  her  father,  advancing  a  step  forward. 
"  What  mean  you,  sire  ?" 

"  My  meaning  is  so  honest,  I  care  not  to  disguise  it," 
replied  the  king.  "  Louise  of  Lorraine  Vaudemont,  speak 
out  truly.  Are  you  contracted  in  marriage  to  the  Count  de 
Brienne?" 

"  My  gracious  sovereign,  I  am  not  under  contract  of  mar- 
riage, to  him  or  any  one,"  replied  Louise. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  become  his  wife  ?  " 

"  No — no — no ! "  returned  she  with  great  earnestness. 

"  How  is  this,  my  lord  duke  ?  "  demanded  the  king,  turn- 
ing with  a  stern  countenance  to  the  Due  de  Mercosur. 

"  My  liege,  this  is  sheer  perversity  on  the  part  of  the 
damsel,"  muttered  the  duke. — "  Had  it  not  been  for  your 
arrival  last  night,  sire,  she  had  now  been  his  wedded  wife." 

"  I  know  not  how  maidens  are  wedded  in  the  provinces," 
observed  the  king,  "  but  in  my  good  city  of  Paris,  and 


LOUISE    CF   LORRAINE.  237 

every  where  else,  where  the  law  of  God  is  obeyed,  a  mar- 
riage cannot  be  contracted  without  the  consent  of  both  par- 
ties, and  your  daughter,  it  seems,  has  not  given  hers  to  wed 
the  Count  de  Brienne." 

"  Nor  ever  will !  "  said  Louise. 

"  Then  I  forbid  the  marriage,"  said  the  king. 

"  My  liege,  is  this  a  meet  return  for  the  hospitable  enter- 
tainment you  have  received  at  Vaudemont,  to  deprive  me  of 
so  honorable  a  son-in-law  as  the  Count  de  Brienne  ?"  said 
the  Due  de  Mercoeur. 

"  My  lord  duke,  I  trust  to  provide  you  with  one  whose 
alliance  even  you  shall  admit  to  be  not  less  honor  able. " 

"  But  my  liege "  interrupted  the  duke  with  some 

heat. 

"  Nay,"  replied  Henry,  "  wait  till  you  hear  his  name, 
and  then  speak  your  pleasure ;  but  first  I  crave  conference 
with  the  young  lady  herself,  for  we  would  not  press  the  suit, 
unless  assured  from  her  own  lips  that  the  new  candidate  for 
her  love  will  be  agreeable  to  her."  Then,  taking  Louise  by 
the  hand,  he  led  her  aside  from  the  company,  and  when  they 
were  at  a  convenient  distance  to  speak  without  being  over- 
heard, he  said,  "  Louise  of  Lorraine,  are  you  willing  to  be- 
come the  bride  of  him  who  holds  your  hand  in  his  ?  " 

"Oh,  my  dread  lord  ! "  cried  she,  trembling  with  emo- 
tion, "  how  is  that  to  be  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  ask  you  that,  Louise  ;  I  only  require  of  you  a 
plain  answer  to  my  question.  Are  you  willing  to  become 
my  wife  ?  " 

"  Your  wedded  wife,  iry  lord  ?  " 

"  Ay,  my  queen." 


238  LOUISE    OF    LORRAINE. 


"  Oh,  my  royal  lord,  how  can  the  simple  Louise  of  Lor- 
raine support  that  awful  name  and  dignity  ?  " 

"  Enough,  enough,"  said  the  king.  "  Now  my  lord 
duke,"  pursued  he,  leading  Louise  to  her  father,  "  what  say 
you  to  your  sovereign  for  a  son-in-law  1 " 

"  Your  majesty  is  pleased  to  jest  with  me." 

"  Nay,  I  am  perfectly  serious,  and  I  who  might  demand, 
request  your  consent  to  my  marriage  with  your  daughter." 

"  The  blood  of  Charlemagne  is  in  the  maiden's  veins,  my 
liege,  and  if  she  be  your  wife,  she  must  also  be  your 
queen." 

"  She  shall,  my  lord,  and  this  day  three  weeks  she  shall  be 
crowned,  and  anointed  with  me  in  the  Cathedral  of  Rheims," 
replied  the  king. 

"  Then  she  is  yours,  my  lioge,"  said  the  duke. 

"  Priests,  draw  up  a  solemn  contract  of  betrothment,"  said 
the  king  ;  then  turning  to  the  Count  de  Brienne,  who  stood 
gnawing  his  embroidered  glove  with  a  malcontent  counte- 
nance, the  monarch  gaily  added,  "  But  for  you  my  good 
count,  I  scarcely  know  what  I  am  to  do  to  console  you  for 
your  present  disappointment." 

"  I  will  settle  that  matter  by  giving  him  my  second 
daughter,"  said  the  duke. 

"  Not  so  fast,  my  lord  duke,"  cried  the  king,  "  I  have 
another  alliance  in  view  for  the  sister  of  our  gracious  queen. 
The  Lady  Marguerite  of  Lorraine  must  not  be  wedded  to 
any  man  unmeet  to  be  the  brother-in-law  of  his  sovereign. 
She  is,  moreover,  contracted  in  marriage  to  my  noble  kins- 
man Joyeuse." 

"  Your  grace  appears  to  be  in  possession  of  many  particu- 


LOUISE    OF    LORRAINE.  239 

lars  relating  to  my  family,  of  which  I  was  in  ignorance," 
observed  the  Due  de  Mercoeur. 

"  Ay,"  replied  the  king,  "  and  of  some  passages  in  the 
past  life  of  him  who  was  to  have  been  your  son-in-law,  which 
haply,  he  would  not  thank  me  for  disclosing.  Nay,  nay, 
my  lord  of  Brienne,  never  change  your  color  thus,  we  are 
willing  to  forget  all  past  misdemeanors,  provided  you  can 
forgive  us  the  loss  of  so  fair  a  bride." 

"  My  liege  you  have  shown  me  my  folly  in  aspiring  to  call 
her  my  countess,  to  whom  I  now  offer  right  humbly  the 
homage  due  from  a  subject  to  his  queen,"  replied  the  Count 
de  Brienne ;  and,  with  as  good  a  grace  as  he  could  command, 
he,  in  turn,  affixed  his  sign  manual  in  witness  to  his  sover- 
eign's contract  with  the  fair  Louise  of  Lorraine. 

In  three  weeks  from  that  day  the  contract  was  fulfilled  by 
the  marriage  of  Louise  to  her  sovereign.  The  alliance  caused 
some  surprise  at  first ;  but  a  new  king  and  a  handsome  king 
is  generally  &  privileged  person  in  France  ;  and  the  beauty 
and  feminine  graces  of  the  young  queen  made  her  an  object 
of  universal  interest  and  unbounded  popularity  with  the  good 
people  of  Paris,  a  popularity  which  her  virtue  rendered 
permanent. 


240  TO    THE    SONS    OF    TEMPERANCE. 


Z©    SMI 

BY     FANNY     FORRESTER* 

ON,  brothers,  on  !  though  the  night  be  gone, 

And  the  morning  glory  breaking ; 
Though  your  toils  be  blest,  ye  may  not  r?.st, 

For  danger's  ever  waking. 
Ye  have  spread  your  sail,  ye  have  braved  the  gale 

And  a  calm  o'er  the  sea  is  creeping ; 
i£ut  I  know  by  the  sky  that  danger's  nigh — 

There's  yet  no  time  for  sleeping  ! 

Still  dingy  walls  nurse  midnight  brawls; 

Up  from  the  vale  is  wreathing 
A  fatal  cloud,  the  soul  to  shroud, 

While  man  its  poison's  breathing, 
«Still  vice  is  seen  in  glittering  sheen, 

In  the  ruby  bubble  laughing , 
But  Death  his  shrine  has  reared  in  wme: 

And  the  young  blood  he  is  quaffing. 

When  the  beaker's  brim  with  rust  is  dim 

Because  no  lip  will  press  it ; 
When  the  worm  is  dead,  which  ever  fed 

On  the  heart  that  dared  caress  it ; 
When  the  gay  false  light  of  the  eyes  so  bright 

Be  too  true  for  thought  to  smother ; 
When  the  art  be  losi,  and  the  demon  tossed, 

And  man  tempt  not  his  brother — 


THE    FEIMROSE.  241 

Then,  peaceful  and  blest,  from  toil  ye  may  rest ; 

Else,  rest  is  but  in  heaven — 
For  shame  still  lies  in  sad  wet  eyes, 

Still  hearts  with  wo  are  riven. 
Then,  brothers,  on  !  though  the  night  be  gone, 

And  the  morning  glory  breaking ; 
Though  your  toils  be  blest,  ye  may  not  rest. 

For  danger — danger's  waking  ! 


a 


ASK  me  why  I  send  you  here, 

This  firstling  of  the  infant  year  ; 

Ask  me  why  I  send  to  you 

This  Primrose  all  be-pearled  with  dew  ; 

I  straight  will  whisper  in  your  ears, 

The  sweets  of  love  are  washed  with  tears  : 

Ask  me  why  this  flower  doth  show 

So  yellow,  green,  and  sickly  too  j 

Ask  me  why  the  stalk  is  weak, 

And  bending,  yet  it  doth  not  break  ; 

I  must  tell  you,  these  discover 

What  doubts  and  fears  are  in  a  lover. 

THOMAS  CAS 


242  FIRST    EARNINGS. 


BY     HARRY     SUNDERLAND. 

MOST  boys  are  inclined  to  be  spendthrifts.  Sixpences 
and  shillings  burn  holes  in  their  pockets  or  slip  through 
their  fingers  like  so  much  quicksilver.  It  was  not  so  with 
Ned  Billings  ;  though  this  could  hardly  be  placed  to  the 
account  of  his  over-carefulness  of  money  ;  for  money  was  a 
thing  that  rarely  grew  hot  in  his  pockets  or  made  his  finger- 
ends  uneasy.  Intemperance  had  brought  his  father  to  an 
early  grave  ;  and  his  sad-hearted  mother  was  laid  in  her  last 
resting  place  ere  he  was  five  years  old.  From  that  time  he 
knew  not  the  comforts  of  a  home.  An  aunt  gave  him  shelter 
under  her  roof,  and  a  seat  at  her  table ;  but  both  were 
grudgingly  bestowed.  As  for  clothing,  he  had  little  beyond 
what  decency  required.  But  Ned  was  a  boy  of  a  cheerful, 
buoyant  temper.  He  went  singing  and  'aughing  on  his  way 
through  life,  as  happy,  apparently,  as  if  he  were  in  the  en- 
joyment of  every  external  comfort.  The  common  school  of 
the  village  in  which  he  lived,  afforded  him  the  rudiments  of 
an  education ;  and,  wild  and  apparently  reckless  as  he  was 
out  of  school,  he  was  rarely  behind  in  his  class.  By  the  time 
he  was  twelve  years  old,  Ned's  mind  was  very  well  furnished 
for  one  of  his  age ;  though,  to  judge  from  his  exterior,  he 


FIRST    EARNINGS.  243 


would  hardly  have  been  thought  competent  to  spell  a  word  in 
three  syllables. 

The  older  the  lad  grew,  the  less  comfortable  did  he  find  his 
home,  and  the  more  clearly  did  he  perceive  that  his  support 
was  felt  as  a  burden  by  his  aunt,  who  hardly  ever  gave  him  a 
pleasant  word.  This  was  the  state  of  affairs  when,  one  day, 
as  Ned  was  strolling  idly  along,  a  boy  several  years  older, 
named  Andrew  Chester,  the  son  of  a  storekeeper,  who  had 
been  sent  to  carry  a  pretty  heavy  bundle  to  a  customer  who 
lived  at  some  distance,  called  to  him  and  said, 

"  I'll  give  you  a  shilling  if  you'll  take  this  home." 

"Agreed!"  was  Ned's  instant  reply.  "  Where  is  it  to 
go?" 

"  Over  to  Hargrove's." 

Ned  took  hold  of  the  bundle,  and  lifted  it.  The  weight 
was  considerable  for  one  of  his  strength,  and  the  distance  to 
go  was  over  a  mile ;  But,  this  caused  no  hesitation.  A 
shilling  was  an  amount  of  money  so  far  beyond  any  thing  he 
had  ever  possessed,  that  the  temptation  was  not  to  be  resisted. 

"  I'll  stay  here  and  play  ball  until  you  come  back,"  said 
Andrew,  as  he  helped  to  place  the  bundle  on  Ned's  shoulders. 
"  I've  got  the  shilling  all  ready  for  you."  And  he  displayed 
the  money  before  the  eyes  of  the  poor  boy. 

Ned  started  off  at  a  quick  pace  ;  but  he  had  gone  only  a 
few  hundred  yards  when  he  found  himself  staggering  under  a 
weight  that  was  too  much  for  his  strength.  Aware  that  if 
he  laid  it  down  in  order  to  rest,  he  would  not  be  able  to  re- 
place it  on  his  shoulder  again,  he  braced  himself  under  his 
burden,  and  m^ved  along  as  rapidly  as  he  could  walk.  But, 
ere  a  third  of  the  distance  was  accomplished,  his  strength 


244  FIRST    EARNINGS. 


failed,  and  bundle  and  boy  both  fell  upon  the  ground.  After 
resting  for  ten  minutes,  Ned  made  an  effort  to  raise  his 
burden ;  but  the  attempt  was  fruitless.  A  ma.1?  passing  at 
the  time  gave  him  the  required  assistance,  and  once  more  he 
started  on  his  errand.  The  next  resting  place  for  his  bundle 
was  on  a  fence ;  a  hundred  yards  further  on  a  tall  stump 
seryed  the  same  purpose.  And  thus,  pausing  to  rest  himself 
and  recover  his  strength,  every  twenty  or  thirty  yards,  he 
succeeded  in  accomplishing  the  whole  distance. 

When  Ned  came  back,  Andrew  Chester,  who  had  enjoyed 
his  ball-playing  for  nearly  an  hour,  paid  over  the  shilling  ac- 
cording to  agreement.  The  sight  of  this  money — a  large 
sum  in  the  lad's  eyes — affected  him  with  a  new  pleasure. 
Here  were  his  first  earning?  and,  as  he  looked  at  the  coin, 
different  thoughts  from  any  he  had  heretofore  known,  began 
to  pass  through  his  mind.  He  felt  that  he  had  in  him  the 
power  to  be  independent.  He  had  hands  to  work,  feet  to 
walk,  and  a  willing  mind. 

Ned's  first  earnings  were  not  spent  m  gratifying  his  appe- 
tite. He  had  worked  too  hard  for  his  shilling  to  part  with  it 
lightly.  Again  and  again  he  looked  at  the  money,  and,  each 
time  he  surveyed  it,  it  appeared  more  attractive  in  his  eyes. 
At  last  it  was  carefully  deposited  in  his  pocket,  to  be  more 
carefully  hidden  away  in  the  little  garret  where  he  slept,  on 
his  return  home. 

For  half  the  night  Ned  lay  awake,  his  mind  too  busy  with 
the  new  thoughts  which  had  entered  it  to  sink  into  the 
oblivion  of  sleep.  The  world  was  opening  before  him,  young 
as  he  was.  He  saw  paths  in  which  his  feet  could  walk  ;  and 
he  felt  eager  !x>  move  in  them.  On  the  next  morning,  after 


FIRST    EARNINGS.  245 


taking  a  glance  at  his  shilling,  he  started  forth,  and  going  to 
the  store  of  Mr.  Chester,  saw  Andrew,  and  asked  him  if  he 
would  have  any  more  bundles  for  him  to  carry.  The  father 
of  Andrew  Chester,  though  in  very  good  circumstances,  had 
no  idea  of  raising  his  son  in  idleness.  He  knew  the  value  of 
industrious  habits,  and,  in  order  to  form  them  in  Andrew, 
who  was  disposed  to  be  indolent,  he  took  him  from  school 
when  he  was  fifteen,  and  placed  him  in  his  store.  The  lad 
was  very  well  pleased  with  the  change  at  first,  for  he  did  not 
much  like  his  books.  But  he  soon  grew  weary  of  attending 
in  the  store  and  carrying  home  goods  to  customers,  and 
whenever  an  opportunity  offered,  endeavored  to  escape  from 
the  duties  required  of  him.  As  his  father  let  him  have  money 
pretty  freely,  he  did  not  value  it  much  ;  and  had  parted  will- 
ingly enough  with  a  shilling  in  order  to  escape  carrying  a 
heavy  bundle  for  a  long  distance,  while,  at  the  same  time,  he 
secured  the  pleasure  of  an  hour's  sport. 

The  application  of  Ned  was  favorably  received  by  Andrew ; 
and  it  was  agreed  between  them,  that  the  former  should 
receive  three  cents  for  every  package  he  took  home  for  the 
latter,  who,  it  must  be  understood,  did  not  much  like  to  be 
seen  carrying  bundles  of  goods  about  the  village.  Ned,  it 
was  also  agreed,  should  be  in  waiting  somewhere  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  meet  Andrew  as  soon  as  he  came  forth 
with  goods  in  his  hands.  While  he  conveyed  them  to  the 
customers,  Andrew  would  be  free  to  enjoy  himself  as  he  liked. 
For  three  weeks  this  arrangement  was  continued.  By  this 
time,  Ned  had  over  a  dollar  in  his  little  treasury.  Not  a 
single  copper  had  he  spent  in  any  self-indulgence.  But,  a 
change  came  over  his  golden  dream  Mr.  Chester  dis- 


246  FIRST    EARNINGS. 


covered  what  was  going  on,  and,  after  severely  reprimanding 
Andrew,  positively  forbade  him  making  any  further  delega- 
tion of  his  work.  Poor  Ned  was  grievously  disappointed 
when  this  intelligence  reached  his  ears.  Already  he  had 
begun  to  make  calculations  for  the  future.  But  the  beauti- 
ful castles  he  had  built  were  but  airy  structures,  and  faded 
away  into  nothingness. 

The  new  ideas  and  purposes  awakened  in  the  mind  of  Ned 
could  not  sleep  again.  They  were  ever  present  before  his 
mind.  One  day,  a  few  weeks  after  the  sudden  closing  of  his 
arrangement  with  Andrew  Chester,  he  said  to  the  relative 
who  had  .given  him  with  grudging  a  home,  a  Aunt,  if  you'll 
give  me  some  clothes,  I'll  go  to  New  York  and  take  care  of 
myself." 

"  To  York ! "  exclaimed  the  aunt,  taken  by  surprise. 
"  What'll  you  do  there  ?  " 

"  Work,"  was  the  confident  reply.  u  I'm  old  enough  and 
strong  enough." 

"  You  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,  Ned,"  petu- 
lantly returned  the  aunt,  who  hardly  ever  gave  the  boy  a 
kind  word. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do,"  said  Ned.  a  Only  give  me  some  decent 
clothes,  and  I'll  .never  trouble  you  again  as  long  as  I  live." 

Ned  continued  to  urge  this  point,  day  after  day,  until  the 
aunt,  becoming  convinced  that  he  was  really  in  earnest, 
granted  the  request,  A  coarse  suit  of  clothes  was  made  up 
for  him,  and  a  pair  of  shoes  and  a  new  hat  bought.  With 
these,  his  dollar  hid  away  in  his  pockets,  as  much  money  be* 
sides  as  would  pay  stage  hire  to  New^York,  and  his  aunt's 
blessing,  such  as  it  was,  Ned  turned  his  back  upon  his  home 


FIRST    EARNINGS.  247 


and  his  face  to  the  world,  feeling  strong  and  confident.  A 
few  hours'  ride  brought  him  to  the  great  city.  Never  had 
he  felt  so  much  alone  as  he  did  while  wandering  along  the 
crowded  streets,  which  he  did  until  the  sober  hues  of  even- 
ing reminded  him  that  he  had  no  where  to  lay  his  head.  By 
this  time  ke  was  hungry  and  fatigued.  Not  a  copper  had 
he  spent  since  his  arrival,  notwithstanding  the  tempting 
array  of  fruit  and  confectionery  that  met  his  eyes  at  almost 
every  turn.  Now  the  calls  of  nature  were  not  to  be  disre- 
garded, and  buying  some  buns,  he  seated  himself  on  the 
steps  of  a  large  house  in  the  upper  part  of  the  city  and 
commenced  eating  his  evening  meal.  While  thus  engaged, 
a  man  stopped  before  him,  and  after  looking  at  him  for  some 
moments,  said,  as  if  satisfied  with  his  observation, 

"  Eating  your  supper,  I  see." 

Ned  looked  an  affirmative,  but  made  no  reply. 

"  After  supper,  where  do  you  expect  to  sleep  ?  "  said  the 
man,  leaning  as  he  spoke  upon  the  iron  railing. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Ned. 

"  Don't  know  !     You're  from  the  country  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  What  brought  you  to  town  ?  " 

"  I've  come  to  get  work  and  take  care  of  myself." 

"  You  have  !     When  did  you  come  ?  " 

"  To-day." 

"Where  from?" 
a  p ^5? 

;i  Have  you  no  friends  in  the  city  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Are  j  :ur  fath  jr  and  mother  alive  I9* 


248  FIRST    EARNINGS. 


"  No,  sir.  I've  lived  with  my  aunt  ever  since  I  was  a 
little  boy." 

"  And  did  she  let  you  come  into  the  city  to  take  care  of 
yourself?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Her  affection  for  you  must  be  strong,"  said  the  man, 
half  to  himself.  "  Have  you  any  money  1 "  he  added. 
The  boy  hesitated  a  moment  or  two,  and  then  replied, 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  How  much  ?  " 

"  Seven  shillings  and  six  pence." 

"  Where  did  you  get  this  money  ?  " 

"  I  earned  it." 

"  Since  you  came  to  the  city  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  I  earned  it  in  P .  But,  I  couldn't  get  any 

thing  more  to  do  there,  and  so  I  thought  I'd  come  to  New- 
York  where  there  was  plenty  of  work." 

Something  about  Ned  interested  the  man,  and  as  he  lived 
in  the  house,  he  said  to  him,  after  a  hurried  reflection  as  to 
the  propriety  of  doing  so, 

"  Come  in.     I'd  like  to  have  some  more  talk  with  you." 

Ned  followed  the  man,  who  took  him  into  his  kitchen,  and 
told  a  servant  to  give  him  some  supper  ;  and  also  to  let  him 
remain  there  until  he  sent  for  him. 

A  further  interview  with  the  lad  interested  the  man  still 
more.  He  was  a  lawyer  named  Folwell,  who  had  risen  from 
a  poor  boy,  through  the  force  of  his  own  character,  to  emi- 
nence and  fortune. 

"  The  boy  needs  a  friend,  and  if  he  be  worthy,  he  shall 
find  one  in  me,"  said  Mr.  Folwell  to  himself  after  his  second 


Of  FIRST    EARNINGS.  249 


conference  with  Ned.  Under  this  feeling,  he  gave  him  a 
shelter  under  his  roof  for  the  night,  and,  on  the  next  day 
took  him  to  his  office  in  order  more  accurately  to  determine 
what  was  in  him.  To  his  surprise,  he  found  that  Ned  could 
write  a  very  fair  hand,  and  could  make  ordinary  calcula- 
tions quite  as  wel.  as  most  boys  of  his  age.  Moreover,  he 
was  quick,  earnest  and  intelligent  ;  and  eager  to  enter  upon 
any  employment  that  was  assigned  him. 

"  He's  got  the  right  kind  of  stuff  in  him,"  said  Mr. 
Folwell,  after  testing  Ned's  character  and  abilities  in  various 
ways.  "  Just  such  a  lad  as  I'd  like  to  educate  in  my  own 
profession." 

Of  course  Ned  had  no  objection  to  any  thing  his  new- 
found friend  had  to  propose.  It  was,  therefore,  settled,  that 
he  should  enter  his  service  and  give  himself  up  implicitly  to 
his  direction. 

A  year  after  Ned  came  to  the  city,  Mr.  Chester  called 
upon  Mr.  Folwell,  and  arranged  with  him  that  his  son 
Andrew  should  read  law  in  his  office.  Up  to  this  time,  Ned 
had  found  but  few  chances  of  adding  to  his  first  earnings 
which  had  never  been  touched  beyond  the  sixpence  it  cost 
him  for  his  supper  on  the  evening  of  his  first  arrival  in  New- 
York.  Occasionally  Mr.  Folwell  had  given  him  a  shilling  to 
spend  for  himself;  but  the  little  coin  had,  in  no  instance, 
passed  through  his  fingers,  but  was  safely  deposited  to 
swell  the  treasure  he  was  hoarding.  Andrew's  arrival  in  the 
city  made  a  new  era  for  Ned.  Pocket-money  had  he  in 
profusion,  and,  as  before,  he  availed  himself  of  Ned's 
readiness  to  perform  almost  any  service,  in  order  to  gratify 
his  natural  indolence.  Dollars  found  their  way  now  to  the 


250  FIRST    EARNINGS. 


boy's  accumulating  fund  more  rapidly  than  shillings  did 
before. 

"  How  much  money  have  you,  Ned  ?"  asked  Andrew,  one 
day,  after  he  had  been  a  year  in  the  city. 

u  Six  dollars/'  replied  Ned. 

"  Lend  it  to  me  until  week  after  next,  and  I'll  pay  you 
back  seven?" 

Ned  hesitated 

"  Don't  be  afraid.  I'll  pay  it.  You  know  I  get  money 
from  home  every  month." 

"  I'm  not  afraid,"  replied  Ned.  "  I'll  bring  you  the  mo- 
ney when  I  come  from  dinner." 

This  was  done.  The  six  dollars  were  lent,  and  seven  paid 
back,  as  agreed  upon,  at  the  time  specified.  Here  was  the 
beginning  of  new  operations.  Andrew  now  spent  his  money 
more  freely,  because  he  knew  that  when  it  was  gone,  he  could 
borrow  from  Ned  until  another  supply  came  ;  and  the  young 
usurer  was  even  more  eager  to  lend  than  he  was  to  borrow. 
This  had  been  going  on  for  several  months,  when  Mr.  Fol- 
well  became  aware  of  what  was  in  progress.  After  a  serious 
conversation  with  Andrew  upon  the  folly  and  danger  of  the 
course  of  life  he  was  adopting,  he  called  Ned  into  his  pri- 
vate office,  and  after  referring  to  the  subject,  said  to  him : 

"  Are  you  not  aware  that  what  you  are  doing  is  wrong  ?" 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  Ned,  looking  Mr.  Folwell,  without  a 
quivering  eyelid,  in  the  face. 

u  It  is,  Edward,  very  wrong ;  for  you  are  taking  advan- 
tage of  Andrew's  weakness  and  prodigal  habits,  to  get  his 
money  from  him.  I  understand,  that  for  five  dollars  lent  to 
him  for  a  week  or  two,  he  pays  you  six  dr  liars.  Is  this  so  V9 


iflRST    EARNINGS.  251 


"  Yes,  sir.     He  offered  me  that." 

"  But  it  was  wrong  for  you  to  take  it.  You  should  have 
been  willing  to  oblige  him  without  the  exaction  of  this  exor- 
bitant interest.  Where  did  you  get  so  much  money  to 
lend?" 

"  I  had  seven  shillings  and  sixpence  when  I  came  here,  and 
you  have  given  me  a  good  many  shillings  since." 

"  Hav'n't  you  spent  anything?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"  But  1  hav'n't  given  you  enough  to  make  the  sum  of  mo- 
ney I  learn  you  have  in  possession." 

"  No,  sir.  But,  since  Andrew  has  been  in  New  York,  he 
has  paid  me  a  good  deal  for  doing  things  for  him." 

u  How  much  has  he  paid  you  for  lending  him  money?" 

"  Six  dollars,"  replied  Ned,  after  thinking  for  a  few  mo 
ments. 

"  Six  dollars  !"  Mr.  Folwell  shook  his  head  and  looked 
grave.  "  I  don't  like  this  at  all.  It's  the  worst  thing  I've 
seen  about  you,  Edward." 

"  If  I've  done  wrong,  I'm  sorry,"  said  Ned,  his  face  be- 
coming serious.  "  I  didn't  know  there  was  any  harm  in  it." 

"  There  is  -always  harm  in  seeking  our  own  good  through 
injury  to  another,"  replied  Mr.  Folwell.  "  This  you  have 
done  in  taking  the  money  of  Andrew  for  a  little  service  that 
you  ought  to  have  cheerfully  rendered  him.  It  put  you  to 
no  inconvenience  whatever  in  doing  the  favor  he  asked  of  you ; 
but  you  would  not  grant  it  unless  paid  a  most  exorbitant 
price.  Sheer  selfishness  and  not  a  spirit  of  good-will  influ- 
enced you.  Thus  your  heart  was  hardened  towards  your  fel- 
low's, instead  of  being  filled  with  kindness.  This  is  a  wrong 


252  FIRST    EARNINGS. 


beginning,  my  boy,  and  will  lead  you  to  grow  up  into 
a  man  of  oppression.  Why  are  you  hoarding  up  your 
money?" 

"  I'm  going  to  keep  it  until  I  become  a  man." 

«  What  for  V9 

"  I  don't  know." 

Mr.  Folwell  shook  his  head. 

"  I  don't  like  this,  Edward,  at  all.  It  isn't  good  to  love 
money  for  itself.  Money  is  the  medium  of  usefulness  in  so- 
ciety, and  should  be  accumulated  and  used  as  the  means  of 
accomplishing  some  desired  purpose.  To  gather  and  hoard 
it  as  an  object  of  possession  is  wrong.  No  one  can  do  it  and 
not  become  a  selfish,  bad  man.  I  want  you  to  think  of  this. 
To-morrow  I  will  talk  to  you  again." 

Ned's  mind  was  thrown  all  into  confusion  by  this  unex- 
pected reproof  from  M^  Folwell.  At  first,  he  could  not  un- 
derstand the  meaning  of  the  strange  language  that  had  been 
used  ;  but,  as  he  thought  of  it  more  and  more,  a  dim  percep- 
tion of  the  truth  began  to  dawn.  On  the  next  day  Mr.  Fol- 
well again  referred  to  the  subject,  and  succeeded  in  making  a 
stronger  impression  on  the  mind  of  the  lad.  From  that  time 
he  observed  him  more  closely,  and  sought,  in  every  possible 
way,  to  give  him  higher  and  truer  views  in  regard  to  the  use 
of  money.  He  induced  him  to  spend  a  portion  of  what  he  had 
accumulated  in  articles  that  he  could  use  in  the  better  fur- 
nishing of  his  mind.  For  instance,  he  offered  to  pay  for  mu- 
sical instruction  if  Edward  would  buy  himself  a  flute.  It 
cost  the  boy  a  struggle  to  do  this ;  but,  after  it  was  done,  and 
he  commenced  taking  lessons,  he  by  no  means  regretted  the 
act.  Thus,  by  ever  keeping  his  mind  on  the  boy's  particu- 


FIRST  EARN;,N&S.  253 


lar.  bias  of  character,  Mr.  Folwell  was  able  to  bend  it  into  a 

' 

better  form  ere  it  had  hardened  into  permanency. 

As  for  Andrew  Chester,  his  indolence  and  tendency  to  self- 
indulgence  were  so  great  that  little  promise  of  future  use- 
fulness was  apparent.  When  he  was  old  enough  to  be  ad- 
mitted to  the  Bar,  he  had  nothing  like  the  legal  knowledge 
possessed  by  Edward  Billings.  In  his  first  case,  he  paid  the 
latter  for  searching  out  the  legal  authorities  required  for  its 
successful  presentation  to  the  Court;  and  gained  his  cause 
alone  through  the  aid  received  from  a  stripling,  three  years' 
younger  than  himself.  The  money  received  for  prosecuting 
this  case,  constituted  Andrew  Chester's  first  earnings. 

"  Do  you  see  that,  Ned,"  said  he,  exhibiting  a  fifty  dollar 
bank  bill  in  triumph. 

Edward  Billings  opened  his  eyes. 

"  There's  my  first  fee  !  A  good  beginning,  is  not  it  ? 
I'm  off  for  Saratoga  to-morrow,  and  don't  mean  to  come  back 
while  a  dollar  of  it  remains." 

"  I  would'nt  do  that,"  said  Edward. 

"  Why  would'nt  you  ?"  quickly  asked  Andrew. 

"  Of  all  money,  I  would'nt  waste  my  first  earnings.  Keep 
them  as  a  nest-egg." 

"  You're  a  miser,  Ned.     A  real  money-lover." 

"  I'm  not  a  money-waster.  Dollars  don't  come  so  easily 
that  I  can  afford  to  throw  them  away.  But,  if  you  will  spend 
your  first  fee,  do  it  in  some  useful  way.  Buy  your  mother  or 
sister  a  present ;  or  spend  it  in  law  books.  Any  thing  but 
waste  it  in  self-indulgence." 

"  Don't  preach  to  me,  Ned,"  replied  Andrew,  laughing. 
"  My  mother  and  sisters  doir  t  want  any  of  my  presents  ;  and 


£54  FIRST    EARNINGS. 


father  has  promised  me  a  five  hundred  dollar  library.  Pm 
off  for  Saratoga  ;  that's  settled.  "  I  mean  to  have  a  good 
time  on  my  first  fee." 

And  Andrew  kept  his  word.  When  he  came  back,  every 
dollar  of  his  first  earnings  were  spent,  and  he  applied  to 
Edward  Billings  for  a  loan.  When  the  latter  was  admitted 
to  the  Bar,  Andrew  had  obtained  a  very  fair  practice  for  the 
time  he  had  been  in  the  profession  ;  but  it  cost  him  three 
times  what  he  earned  to  live.  His  father,  of  course,  made  up 
the  deficiency. 

Very  different  from  this  was  Edward's  manner  of  com- 
mencing the  world.  He  understood  too  well  the  value  of  mo- 
ney to  waste  it  in  mere  idle  pleasure  and  personal  gratifica- 
tion. The  first  fee  he  received  was  twenty  dollars.  Instead 
of  spending  it,  as  Andrew  had  done,  he  laid  it  carefully  away 
to  help  serve  as  the  means  of  his  support ;  for,  from  the  time 
of  his  admission  to  the  bar,  he  had  felt  under  obligation  to 
meet  entirely  his  own  expenses.  A  natural  feeling  of  inde- 
pendence would  not  permit  him  any  longer  to  lean  upon  his 
kind  patron.  His  careful  habits  had,  during  his  minority, 
enabled  him  to  save  up  about  sixty  dollars,  which  now  came 
in  as  a  temporary  means  of  self-sustenance.  Mr.  Folwell, 
who  had  availed  himself  of  his  services  for  so  many  years, 
still  retained  theiu  so  a  certain  extent,  and  the  regular  amount 
paid  to  Edward  for  this  service,  helped  him  considerably. 

A  few  years  showed  the  result  of  the  different  modes  of  en- 
tering the  world  pursued  by  the  two  young  men.  He  who 
spent,  foolishly,  his  first  earnings,  continued  to  waste  what 
came  in  subsequently  ;  and  he,  who  was  careful  of  his  first- 
earnings,  continued  to  be  careful  of  his  after  receipts. 


FIRST    EARNINGS.  255 


About  the  time  Andrew  reached  his  twenty-seventh 
year,  his  father  died  ;  and,  on  the  division  of  his  property, 
twelve  thousand  dollars  came  to  him  as  his  share  of  the 

estate.  This  was  in  two  houses  in  P and  a  farm  in  the 

neighborhood.  Scarcely  a  week  elapsed  after  this  division 
took  place,  before  Andrew  applied  to  Edward  Billings  for  a 
loan  of  one  thousand  dollars  on  a  mortgage  of  the  farm.  The 
latter  had  the  money  in  bank  and  took  the  mortgage.  This 
money  he  had  saved  from  his  professional  earnings.  Andrew 
might  have  laid  up  money  also ;  but  as  he  spent  his  first 
earnings,  so  he  continued  to  spend.  Ten  years  afterwards, 
and  Edward  Billings  was  worth  twenty  thousand  dollars, 
while  Andrew  Chester  was  not  worth  a  penny.  Each  had 
gone  on  as  he  began,  and  here  was  the  result.  Disheartened 
by  this  result,  Chester,  who  had  acquired  dissolute  habits, 
fell  into  intemperance,  and  gradually  sunk  lower  and  lower, 
until  he  became  a  social  cast-off — a  wretched  cumberer  of  the 
ground.  And  thus  he  died  in  the  prime  of  manhood. 

Edward  Billings  still  lives,  and  is  one  of  the  most  intelli- 
gent and  successful  members  of  the  bar  in  the  state  of  Ne^r 
York.  He  has  acquired  large  wealth  ;  and,  he  has  gained  it 
fairly.  The  error  into  which  his  love  of  accumulation  first 
led  him,  was  properly  corrected  at  the  time,  when  a  new  and 
healthier  form  was  given  to  his  growing  character. 

Few  men  succeed  who  do  not  begin  right.  Early  errors 
are  too  frequently  reproduced  in  all  the  after  life.  This 
wasting  of  first  earnings  is  one  of  these  errors.  Let  all  who 
are  entering  the  world  beware  how  they  fall  into  it. 


256  THE    I ESERTED    HOUSE. 


B2S3EX3B   3EQV83 

BY     R.     H.     STODDARD.    ' 


THE  Old  House  lies  in  ruin  and  wreck, 
And  the  villagers  stand  in  fear  aloof; 
The  rafters  bend,  and  the  roof  is  black, 
But  bright  green  mosses  spot  the  roof; 
The  window  panes  are  shattered  out, 
And  the  broken  glass  is  lying  about, 
And  the  elms  and  poplars  cast  a  shade 
All  day  long  on  the  colonnade. 

The  lawn  in  front  with  its  sloping  bank; 

A  garden  sweet  in  its  happier  hours, 
Is  covered  with  weeds,  and  grasses  rank 

Usurp  the  place  of  its  faded  flowers  : 
Adders  bask  in  the  summer  sun, 
And  rusty  toads  and  beetles  run 
Over  the  paths,  the  gravelly  floor 
Where  children  played  in  the  days  of  yore. 

A  light  wind  bloweth  —  the  front  door  swings 
And  creeks  on  its  hinges  —  the  sun  lies  there* 

There's  a  web  stretched  over  it  full  of  wings, 
And  the  spider  watches  within  his  lair. 

I  see  the  staircase  slant,  and  wide 

Floating  along  from  room  to  room  ; 

The  floor  is  covered  with  damp  and  mould, 

And  he  dust  floats  up  like  a  mist  of  gold 


THE    DESERTED   HOUSE.  257 

I  hear  a  noise  in  the  echoing  hall, 

A  solemn  sound  like  a  stifled  sigh  ; 
And  shadows  move  on  the  dusky  wall 

Like  the  sweep  of  garments  passing  by; 

*#•*#•*##» 

And  faces  glimmer  amid  the  gloom, 
The  Dead  comes  back,  a  shining  train, 
And  people  the  lonely  House  again. 

I  seen  a  beautiful  Lady  bright, 

Stand  at  her  mirror  with  conscious  pride, 

Decked  with  ornaments,  gems  of  light, 
And  robed  in  white  like  a  lovely  Bride ; 

And  her  young  sisters,  blithe  and  fair, 

Are  twining  flowers  in  her  wavy  hair. 

And,  lo  !  another  unseen  before — 

The  Bridegroom  peeping  in  at  the  door! 

Yule!  the  walls  are  covered  with  holly, 

And  a  mistletoe  bough  is  hung  on  high. 
The  wassail  passes — the  men  are  jolly, 

Kissing  the  blushing  maids  a-sly; 
The  old  folks  sit  by  the  crackling  blaze, 
Living  over  their  early  days, 
The  children  chatter  and  laugh  in  glee, 
And  the. baby  crows  on  its  grand-sire's  knee. 

And  now  'tis  Summer,  and  children  sing. 

And  hide  in  corners  and  shady  nooks, 
And  sit  on  the  floor  in  a  little  ring, 

And  one  in  the  middle  reads  fairy  books. 
Twilight  comes  and  they  cease  their  play, 
And  crowd  at  their  n  other's  side  to  pray, 
And  kneel,  and  after  their  prayers  are  said, 
Kiss  he.  and  huddle  away  to  bed. 


258  THE    DESERTED    HOUSE. 

But  gloomier  pictures  come  with  years — 

The  sick  man  lies  on  a  bed  of  pain, 
And  the  pale  wife  sits  by  his  side  in  tears, 

Watching  his  broken  sleep  in  vain  - 
In  vain  !  for  his  days  on  earth  are  done  ; 
And  the  falling  sands  of  his  life  are  run  : 
A  kiss — a  smile — and  the  soul  is  fled, 
And  the  living  is  left  alone  with  the  dead. 

A  funeral  now  in  the  darkened  hall, 

The  mourners  gather  around  the  bier, 
And  look  their  last,  and  the  children  small 
Peep  in  the  coffin  and  shrink  with  fearj 
The  body  is  borne  with  tears  and  wo 
Down  the  shaded  avenue  slow, 
Down  to  the  gates  where  the  mutes  await, 
And  the  plumed  hearse  and  its  sable  state. 

The  House  is  quiet  and  sleeps  in  gloom. 

The  mirth  and  revel  of  yore  have  fled, 
The  widow  sits  in  the  silent  room, 

And  dreams  of  the  dear  departed  Dead, 
Fast  by  the  magic  of  Memory  bound — . 
And  the  books  and  the  gifts  around, 
Deepen  the  spell,  and  more  than  all 
His  portrait,  hung  on  the  sombre  wall. 

The  shadows  thicken — a  gloomy  train, 
Sorrow  and  sickness — death — the  pal1— 

Sorrow  and  sickness — death  again — 
The  shade  of  his  wing  is  over  all — 

Right  and  left  his  arrows  fly  : 

One  by  one  the  family  die ; 

And  the  Old  House  falleth  in  decay, 

And  wastes  with  the  silent  years  awnv 


THE    BODY    AGAINST   THE    SOUL.  259 


BY     J.     A.    STONE. 

k<  THE  spirit  is  willing,  but  the  flesh  is  weak,55  is  the  lan- 
guage of  the  holy  word.  And  in  all  our  little  indulgences 
of  life,  too  true  it  is,  that  we  seem  to  lose  the  abstract  sense 
of  what  we  are.  We  seem  to  forget  how  brief  and  how 
fleeting  is  time  ;  and  to  hoard  up  the  little  pleasures  of  our 
short  day  on  earth,  as  though  they  were  truly  the  end  and 
aim  of  our  creation.  Slowly  and  imperceptibly  does  pleasure, 
thus  pampered  and  indulged,  win  the  affections  ;  and  when 
at  last,  startled  by  its  advances,  we  would  shake  off  its  hold, 
we  find  it  clinging  with  a  tenacity,  that  evinces  its  iron- 
grasp  upon  our  animal  nature.  The  spirit  and  the  con- 
science yet  incline  us  heavenward  ;  but  the  flesh  has  its 
appetites,  and  we  have  perhaps  too  long  granted  them  indul- 
gence— too  long  warred  against  that  Spirit  which  shall  not 
wrestle  with  us  always.  The  flesh  is  emphatically  too  weak 
to  break  off  the  strong  bonds  of  habit. 

Pleasure,  however,  as  we  use  the  term,  needs  defining.  In 
kind,  and  as  distinguished  by  its  object,  it  is  either  true  or 
false.  We  will  venture  to  assume  the  ground,  that  wher- 
ever and  in  whatsoever  it  is  sought  for  its  own  sake  alone,  it 
is  false  pleasure.  Its  true  nature — pure,  joyous,  delightful 


260  THE    BODY    AGAINST    THE    SOUL. 

—  springs  out  of  the  faithful  performance  of  the  duties  of 
life.  It  is  found  with  the  Christian,  and  the  doer  of  good 
deeds,  in  a  sense  differing  from  the  delights  of  the  debauchee 
and  pleasure-hunter,  "  as  the  real  diamond  differs  from  the 
paste."  In  our  use  of  the  term,  we  allude  to  what  we  deem 
its  false  representative. 

Among  all  the  avenues  through  which  pleasure  is  sought, 
perhaps  none  opens  so  wide  a  path  as  Intemperance.  This 
leads  in  fact  into  every  other.  It  prepares  the  mind  for 
them,  by  dulling  its  perceptions  of  truth  and  reason,  and,  in 
an  imperceptible  manner,  drawing  a  slow-gathering  mist  over 
those  divine  powers  and  soul-longings  which  God  has  im- 
planted, and  gradually  obscuring  from  the  sight  the  goal  to 
to  which  Heaven  is  pointing. 

It  is  perhaps  a  settled  maxim,  that  man  is  never  satisfied 
with  what  earth  can  yield  him  ;  and  the  possession  of  one 
world  but  increaseth  his  want  for  another,  mightier  than  the 
one  he  hath.  In  this  truth,  how  beautifully  revealed  is  that 
mysterious,  immortal  thirst,  which  can  never  be  quenched 
but  by  an  immortal  dra.ught ;  and  which,  mistaking  that 
fountain-spring,  that  "  well  of  life,55  whence  alone  flows 
the  full  and  copious  supply,  drains  every  cup  that  time 
can  fill — finds  each  a  poison  to  his  blood,  that  makes  him 
thirst  the  more.  Thus,  Napoleon-like,  man  climbs  the  gid- 
diest height,  grasps  an  imperial  crown,  holds  the  rein  of 
empires  in  his  hand — and  yet,  is  not  satisfied.  "  And  what 
shall  it  profit  a  man,  if  he  gain  the  whole  world  and  lose  his 
own  soul  ?  " 

Kings  and  conquerors  in  every  age  have  drunk  the  wine 
of  debauch.  As  ambition  has  found  ita  check  in  the  sober* 


viE    BODY    AGAINST    THE    SOUL.  261 

ness  of  reason  and  unp^.soned  thought,  men  have  fancied 
weariness,  and  sought  refreshment  in  the  pleasures  of  wine. 
It  was  a  restlessness  of  conscience,  and  the  remedy  was 
found  in  a  fresh  supply  of  the  stimulus  which  fires  the 
"  spirit  of  the  damned" — a  new  invigoration  of  the  prompt- 
ings of  "  the  evil  one."  It  was  pleasure's  game  on  a  grand 
scale.  But  whether  this  subtle  conspirator  with  the  devil 
act  upon  men  of  exalted,  or  upon  men  of  degraded  rank,  it 
ever  exerts  a  demoralizing  influence ;  it  is  ever  destructive 
to  religious  feeling.  Its  influence  is  felt,  not  only  by  the 
individual  upon  whom  it  more  specially  acts,  but  also  by 
those  who  are  drawn  by  his  example.  It  is  slowly  corrupt- 
ing ;  insidiously  leading  astray  from  rectitude  and  virtue  ; 
arraying  vice  in  its  most  dazzling  colors ;  and  luring  on  step 
by  step  to  the  dark  mazes  of  that  dismal  night,  in  which  the 
soul  finally  loses  the  sense  of  its  own  high  destiny. 

As  the  love  of  money  is  the  root  of  all  evil,  so  is-the  love  of 
alcohol  the  root  of  every  vice.  Not  that  crime  is  never  com- 
mitted without  its  agency,  any  more  than  other  forms  of  evil 
never  arise  unless  the  love  of  money  be  the  exciting  cause ; 
but  rather  that  every  species  of  vice  and  crime  is  found  to 
spring  from  this  source,  as  every  species  of  evil  is  known  to 
come  from  the  love  of  money.  But,  while  the  one  confers 
many  advantages,  the  other  is  attended  with  none.  While 
the  love  of  money  is  often  followed  by  blessings,  the  love  of 
alcohol  is  ever  a  withering  curse.  Where  money  circulates 
freely  in  a  community,  it  is  a  sign  of  prosperity,  life,  and  bu- 
siness ;  but  where  alcohol  circulates  freely,  it  is  a  sign  of  ad- 
versity, death,  and  stagnation  of  the  general  Dulse.  While 
one  procures  the  blessings  of  a  temporal  home,  the  other  pur- 


262  THE    BODY    AGAINST    THE    SOUL. 

cnases  the  curses  of  Heaven,  and  an  eternal  inheritance  for  a 
ruined  soul.  And  can  the  good  and  the  wise  longer  behold 
inhere  it  works,  and  how  it  works  upon  the  mind  and  condi- 
tion of  man,  and  what  have  evej  been  its  effects,  and  yet  re- 
main its  advocates,  or  even  its  lukewarm  opponents  ?  Can 
they  behold  it  everywhere — on  every  side  the  right  hand  tool 
>.f  vice,  without  which  its  activity  would  be  largely  diminish- 
ed ;  a  tool  that  carves  its  lines  of  moral  death  upon  the  soul 
as  legibly  as  the  chisel  traces  its  epitaph  upon  the  tombstone ; 
an  elixir  that  fires  every  vein  and  sinew  of  the  human  frame 
into  open  rebellion  against  the  warnings  of  the  spirit  ? — can 
they  see  all  this,  and  yet  fail  to  raise  hand  and  voice  against 
the  deadly  peril  ? 

What  strenuous  efforts  are  deemed  necessary  to  guard  the 
health  of  the  body  against  the  infection  of  disease.  Even  a 
morbid  sensibility  sometimes  seizes  the  minds  of  individuals 
and  of  communities.  The  sick  are  often  left  without  attend- 
ance from  fear  of  contagion.  A  vessel  whose  unhappy  in- 
mates are  infected  with  "  ship-fever"  or  other  pestilence,  is 
thrust  from  our  harbors,  until  the  danger  to  the  community 
subsides.  And  certainly,  a  due  regard  to  public  health  is 
imperative  in  those  vested  with  authority  in  the  premises.  If 
the  virulent  matter  of  merely  bodily  corruption  and  disease, 
could  be  bottled  up  and  distributed  among  numerous  depots, 
throughout  every  city,  town  and  village  in  the  country  ;  and 
there  uncorked  to  send  forth  :'ts  poisonous  effluvia  to  infect  the 
pure  air  of  heaven ;  or  in  some  pleasing  mixture,  be  sold  as  a 
"  cordial  for  the  ills  of  life  ;" — the  good  and  the  wise — nay, 
the  overwhelming  mass  of  mankind — would  rise  in  arms,  and 
cry  out  tha*  some  fiend  incarnate  had  been  sending  forth  the 


THE    BODY    AGAINST    THE    SOUL.  263 


legions  of  hell  to  war  upon  the  habitations  of  men,  and  to  ex- 
terminate tli^m  from  the  earth. 

But  what  is  the  practical  lesson  here  taught  ?  That  men 
live  for  their  body's  sake,  more  than  for  their  soul's  :  for  al- 
cohol is  this  "  virulent  matter,"  with  one  addition  to  its  pow- 
er. If  it  be  an  atoning  one,  let  good  men  judge.  It  is  not 
only  as  deadly  to  the  body,  but  it  moreover  destroys  the  soul. 

Is  it  not  singular,  that  men  are  so  sensitive  to  every  pin's 
scratch  in  the  flesh,  and  yet  can  remain  so  insensible  to  the 
dagger-wounds  upon  their  spiritual  nature  ?  If  professing 
Christians,  they  must  admit  that  this  life  is  but  a  little  span, 
and  that  the  body  is  but  that  corruptible  part,  which  cannot 
inherit  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  It  is  but  a  seed  sown  in  the 
ground,  that  shall  spring  up  in  the  eternal  world,  a  tree  bear- 
ing good  fruit  or  ill,  according  as  the  genial  winds  and  gentle 
dews  of  heaven,  or  the  scorching  blasts  and  poisoning  vapors 
of  hell,  may  have  triumphed  in  the  garden  where  it  was  sown. 
Though  still  its  successor,  yet  not  in  the  same  unchanged 
body  shall  it  rise  again.  St.  Paul  .says  :  "But  some  man 
will  say,  How  are  the  dead  raised  up  1  And  with  what  body 
do  they  come ']  Thou  fool,  that  which  thou  sowest  is  not 
quickened  except  it  die :  and  that  which  thou  sowest,  thou 
sowest  not  that  body  that  shall  be,  but  bare  grain,  it  may 
chance  of  wheat  or  of  somo  other  grain  ;  but  God  giveth  it  a 
body  as  it  hath  pleased  Him,  and  to  every  seed  his  own 
body.55  Of  how  trifling  importance  then,  in  the  abstract,  is 
that  flesh  which  we  pamper  so  indulgently,  and  which  the 
Scripture  teaches  should  be  crucified  in  its  desires  and  appe- 
tites and  longings  and  self-consuming  passions  ;  and,  as  a 
thing  of  mortality  that  passes  away,  be  brought  into  subor- 


264  THE    BODY    AGAINST    THE    SOUL. 

dination  to  the  high,  immortal  interests  of  the  soul !  Let  it 
never  be  forgotten,  that  all  apparent  sacrifice  required  in  this 
is  real  gain.  The  entire  man  is  so  made,  as  best  to  perfect 
his  physical  as  well  as  mental  organization  in  the  pure  at- 
mosphere  of  virtue.  There  is,  in  their  harmony  of  action,  a 
genial  intercourse  and  sympathy  between  the  material  and 
spiritual  nature.  But,  if  the  spirit  be  neglected,  the  flesh  is 
like  a  hard-working  machine,  from  whose  journals  and  bear- 
ings the  oil  is  withheld,  so  that  it  is  soon  consumed  with  its 
own  friction.  Thus,  to  the  argument  of  the  soul's,  then,  is 
added  that  of  more  invigorated  bodily  health — we  might  add, 
of  growing  wealth  and  happiness  :  and  surely,  all  these  ought 
to  be  sufficient  to  overcome  the  strongest  natural  proneness 
to  Intemperance  and  its  attending  vices. 


'0     I  I 


Y    ' 


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•'& 


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